WHAT all men think
‘Tis mine to say;
To me the dark
Is as the day,
To-morrow is as yesterday.
Where men are blind
I only see;
Dumb mouth, deaf ears
Are naught to me;
It is enough alone to be.
What all men dream
I realize;
And mortals wait
Till their dead eyes
Open upon the great surprise.
Of my vast height
The poets rhyme;
With feeble feet
They vainly climb,
With tired steps, my steep of time.
Where men believe
‘Tis mine to know;
Mine are the peaks
That burn and glow,
With their volcanoes in the snow,
Mine is the soul
Of fire; lit
By the unknown;
But out of it
Upon the heart the known is writ.