Lines in Pleasant Places Rhythmics of many moods and quantities. Wise and otherwise |
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WHAT MAN DON'T KNOW. |
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 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
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WHAT MAN DON'T KNOW.
How much men know! 'Tis a constant brag,
And Science puts on a thousand airs,
As she points to the bright advancing flag
That the names of her many conquests bears;
But though they are grand as grand can be,
And such vast acqusitions show,
They are but drops to the infinite sea
Of other things that men don't know.
And Science puts on a thousand airs,
As she points to the bright advancing flag
That the names of her many conquests bears;
But though they are grand as grand can be,
And such vast acqusitions show,
They are but drops to the infinite sea
Of other things that men don't know.
Savants may turn their eyes to the stars,
And scan the wonders depicted there;
How brief the limit their vision bars
In those ample spaces of upper air!
They may dig deep down in the venous earth,
And weigh each grain of the waiting ground,
But they puzzle over the vagrant birth
Of a chance-sown seed in its dark profound.
And scan the wonders depicted there;
How brief the limit their vision bars
In those ample spaces of upper air!
They may dig deep down in the venous earth,
And weigh each grain of the waiting ground,
But they puzzle over the vagrant birth
Of a chance-sown seed in its dark profound.
They may read the track of the craving tide
That fritters away the sturdy rock,
But mightier mysteries abide
Their pygmy efforts may not unlock;
They may scale the mountain, and sink the mine,
May measure distance, and vastness scan;
They know not whence is the diamond's shine,
Nor read in Nature her humblest plan.
That fritters away the sturdy rock,
But mightier mysteries abide
Their pygmy efforts may not unlock;
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May measure distance, and vastness scan;
They know not whence is the diamond's shine,
Nor read in Nature her humblest plan.
And, amid the ranks of men, how dim
Is human vision to reach afar!
Man's brightest glory is but a glim,
To boast the merit of being a star!
Along his journey he haltingly gropes,
With doubtful footsteps and doubtful bent;
His life composed of guesses and hopes,
In airs of weakness and discontent.
Is human vision to reach afar!
Man's brightest glory is but a glim,
To boast the merit of being a star!
Along his journey he haltingly gropes,
With doubtful footsteps and doubtful bent;
His life composed of guesses and hopes,
In airs of weakness and discontent.
With yearning heart, and with onward glance,
He presses along for the hidden goal,
Unknowing whether each step's advance
May give him pleasure or give him dole—
Not knowing if coming time will bestow
A bed of thorns, or of flowery ease;
Revealing how much he doesn't know,
But doing the best as far as he sees.
He presses along for the hidden goal,
Unknowing whether each step's advance
May give him pleasure or give him dole—
Not knowing if coming time will bestow
A bed of thorns, or of flowery ease;
Revealing how much he doesn't know,
But doing the best as far as he sees.
Even the cup of his thirsty need
—Beaming with seeming truth and love—
He shrinks from tasting, with cautious heed,
Lest bitter the tempting beaker prove.
No finger to point, no tongue to tell,
His longing soul the way to pursue,
He loiters, and ponders deep and well,
With a doleful sigh, “If I only knew!”
—Beaming with seeming truth and love—
He shrinks from tasting, with cautious heed,
Lest bitter the tempting beaker prove.
No finger to point, no tongue to tell,
His longing soul the way to pursue,
He loiters, and ponders deep and well,
With a doleful sigh, “If I only knew!”
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But moving along, by faith imbued,
Though dark the way, it is ever right;
E'en though not seeing the sweet flowers strewed,
They send up fragrance to give delight;
Our hand firm clasped in the Hand unseen,
We catch the note of a distant song,
And onward move to the pastures green,
Where the sight is clear and the day is long.
Though dark the way, it is ever right;
E'en though not seeing the sweet flowers strewed,
They send up fragrance to give delight;
Our hand firm clasped in the Hand unseen,
We catch the note of a distant song,
And onward move to the pastures green,
Where the sight is clear and the day is long.
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |