Why is the mire in the trodden street,
And the dark stream by the sewer borne,
Spurned from even under our feet,
Grudged by us e'en the look of scorn?
There is fresh grass in its gloom—
There are sweetness and bloom;
There is pulse for men to eat—
There are golden acres of wheat.
But so it is, and hath ever been:
The good of the future is e'er unseen.
Why is the mud of humanity spurned
E'en from the tread of the passer-by?
Why is the look of pity turned
From the bare feet and the downcast eye?
There is virtue yet to spring
From this poor trodden thing;
There are germs of godlike power
In the trials of this hour;
But so it is, and hath ever been:
The man of the future is e'er unseen.