Not once beat “Praise be Thine! 
    I see the whole design,
  I, who saw Power, shall see Love perfect too: 
    Perfect I call Thy plan: 
    Thanks that I was a man! 
  Maker, remake, complete—­I trust what Thou shalt do!”

    For pleasant is this flesh;
    Our soul, in its rose-mesh
  Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: 
    Would we some prize might hold
    To match those manifold
  Possessions of the brute—­gain most, as we did best!

    Let us not always say,
    “Spite of this flesh to-day. 
  I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!”
    As the bird wings and sings,
    Let us cry, “All good things
  Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!”

    Therefore I summon age
    To grant youth’s heritage,
  Life’s struggle having so far reached its term: 
    Thence shall I pass, approved
    A man, for aye removed
  From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.

    And I shall thereupon
    Take rest, ere I be gone
  Once more on my adventure brave and new: 
    Fearless and unperplexed,
    When I wage battle next,
  What weapons to select, what armor to indue.

    Youth ended, I shall try
    My gain or loss thereby;
  Be the fire ashes, what survives is gold: 
    And I shall weigh the same. 
    Give life its praise or blame: 
  Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

    For note, when evening shuts,
    A certain moment cuts
  The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: 
    A whisper from the west
    Shoots—­“Add this to the rest,
  Take it and try its worth:  here dies another day.”

    So, still within this life,
    Though lifted o’er its strife,
  Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
    “This rage was right i’ the main,
    That acquiescence vain: 
  The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.”

    For more is not reserved
    To man, with soul just nerved
  To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: 
    Here, work enough to watch
    The Master work, and catch
  Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool’s true play. 
    As it was better, youth
    Should strive, through acts uncouth,
  Toward making, than repose on aught found made;
    So, better, age, exempt
    From strife, should know, than tempt
  Further.  Thou waitedst age; wait death nor be afraid!

    Enough now, if the Right
    And Good and Infinite
  Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own,
    With knowledge absolute,
    Subject to no dispute
  From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

    Be there, for once and all,
    Severed great minds from small,
  Announced to each his station in the Past! 
    Was I, the world arraigned,
    Were they, my soul disdained,
  Right?  Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!