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 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
Earth's greatest ones ever have gone so far
Out on life's borderland, that they have caught
The sound of an infinite ocean, far away,
Rounding our island-world. But now appear
These new philosophers, practical, well-informed,
Assuring us there is no ocean-sound—
'T is but the roaring in our feverish ears.
They carry the glimmering lantern of conceit
Swinging along their path, and see no Night,
No fathomless, sombre glory of the dark,
But their own shadows, that seem giant forms,
Stalking across the fields and fences—they
That are stumbling pygmies!
Out on life's borderland, that they have caught
The sound of an infinite ocean, far away,
63
These new philosophers, practical, well-informed,
Assuring us there is no ocean-sound—
'T is but the roaring in our feverish ears.
They carry the glimmering lantern of conceit
Swinging along their path, and see no Night,
No fathomless, sombre glory of the dark,
But their own shadows, that seem giant forms,
Stalking across the fields and fences—they
That are stumbling pygmies!
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |