To The Prophetic Soul

What are these bustlers at the gate     Of now or yesterday,     These playthings in the hand of Fate,     That pass, and point no way;     These clinging bubbles whose mock fires     For ever dance and gleam,     Vain foam that gathers and expires     Upon the world's dark stream;     These gropers betwixt right and wrong,     That seek an unknown goal,     Most ignorant, when they seem most strong;     What are they, then, O Soul,     That thou shouldst covet overmuch     A tenderer range of heart,     And yet at every dreamed-of touch     So tremulously start?     Thou with that hatred ever new     Of the world's base control,     That vision of the large and true,     That quickness of the soul;     Nay, for they are not of thy kind,     But in a rarer clay     God dowered thee with an alien mind;     Thou canst not be as they.     Be strong therefore; resume thy load,     And forward stone by stone     Go singing, though the glorious road     Thou travellest alone.