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For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so rightly,
As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above.

And she talked on—we talked truly! upon all things—substance—shadow—
Of the sheep that browsed the grasses—of the reapers in the corn—
Of the little children from the schools, seen winding through the meadow—
Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept.poorer by its scorn!

So of men, and so, of letters—books are men of higher stature,
And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear!
So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly into nature,
Yet will lift the cry of "progress," as it trod from sphere to sphere.

And her custom was to praise me, when I said,—"The Age culls simples,
With a broad clown's back turned broadly, to the glory of the stars—
We are gods by our own reck'ning,—and may well shut up the temples,
And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars.

"For we throw out acclamations of self-thanking, self-admiring,
With, at every mile run faster,—' O the wondrous, wondrous age,'
Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as our iron,—
Or if angels will commend us, at the goal of pilgrimage.