Something it is, if not the greatest thing,
To sit, the prophet of Oracular Truth,
Beside the world, not in it! great, in sooth,
Is even his function who can only sing.
How deep is his whose potent song can bring
More soul into this labouring frame uncouth,
This world, still struggling with its clumsy youth,
Help this cramp chrysalid to stretch its wing!
Yea, great the Poet's task! 'tis great to make,
To make Hope, Love, all Nobleness, all Bliss,
All lovely things and pure. Almost I see
How man for it should be content to miss
His greater task—to do, yea for its sake
Abdicate even his greatest right—to be!