Rebellion

To wake at morn, And hear the little laugh Of the lake-wind in the trees; To watch at dawn The earliest sunbeam kiss The mist-crowned, towering peaks And glide down to the plains. Ah, that is Life! Not this⁠— To wake at morn, And hear the swelling roar Of Man, Beast and Machine, Toiling in murky air And a city’s sweat! At noon to dream Where Nature’s bowers are hid Beneath an arch Of twined and intersticing vines, While on the air Quivers the chanting of the sighing woods, And the songs of mating birds. Ah, that is Life! Not this⁠— At noon to pause, And lay aside the pen for one brief hour: Then to return, as I did yesterday, Will do to-morrow and on all to-morrows⁠— Oh, Fool, Machine, and Slave! Again at dusk, To watch the sun’s last ray Fade in the west; To feel Earth’s grand transition From day to night⁠— That moment when the world Pauses and knows itself! The Angelus chimes And echoes round the Earth; Here the Muezzin’s call, There a child’s lullaby, And now a poor serf’s prayer.... Earth’s evensong! To hear that is to live! Not this⁠— To breast the roaring surge Of thousands, pale and tired, dead in soul, Crowding with merciless haste toward home. Home?... Past ere the sweet of home has touched the sense! To toil that we may sleep That better we may toil; To toil that we may eat, That better we may toil. Ay, that is Life; but still⁠— But still we dream!