But no such thought drew near to me that day;
  All the new worlds flock forth to greet the old,
All the young souls bow down to own its sway,
  Enamoured of strange richness manifold;
Not to be stored, albeit they seek for aye,
  Besieging it for its own life to hold,
E’en as Al Mamoun fain for treasures hid,
Stormed with an host th’ inviolate pyramid.

And went back foiled but wise to walled Bagdad. 
  So I, so all.  The treasure sought not found,
But some divine tears found to superadd
  Themselves to a long story.  The great round
Of yesterdays, their pathos sweet as sad,
  Found to be only as to-day, close bound
With us, we hope some good thing yet to know,
But God is not in haste, while the lambs grow

The Shepherd leadeth softly.  It is great
  The journey, and the flock forgets at last
(Earth ever working to obliterate
  The landmarks) when it halted, where it passed;
And words confuse, and time doth ruinate,
     And memory fail to hold a theme so vast;
There is request for light, but the flock feeds,
And slowly ever on the Shepherd leads.

‘Home,’ quoth my father, and a glassy sea
     Made for the stars a mirror of its breast,
While southing, pennon-like, in bravery
     Of long drawn gold they trembled to their rest. 
Strange the first night and morn, when Destiny
     Spread out to float on, all the mind oppressed;
Strange on their outer roof to speed forth thus,
And know th’ uncouth sea-beasts stared up at us.

But yet more strange the nights of falling rain,
     That splashed without—­a sea-coal fire within;
Life’s old things gone astern, the mind’s disdain,
     For murmurous London makes soft rhythmic din. 
All courtier thoughts that wait on words would fain
     Express that sound.  The words are not to win
Till poet made, but mighty, yet so mild
Shall be as cooing of a cradle-child.

Sensation like a piercing arrow flies,
     Daily out-going thought.  This Adamhood,
This weltering river of mankind that hies
     Adown the street; it cannot be withstood. 
The richest mundane miles not otherwise
  Than by a symbol keep possession good,
Mere symbol of division, and they hold
The clear pane sacred, the unminted gold

And wild outpouring of all wealth not less. 
  Why this?  A million strong the multitude,
And safe, far safer than our wilderness
  The walls; for them it daunts with right at feud,
Itself declares for law; yet sore the stress
  On steeps of life:  what power to ban and bless,
Saintly denial, waste inglorious,
Desperate want, and riches fabulous.

Of souls what beautiful embodiment
  For some; for some what homely housing writ;
What keen-eyed men who beggared of content
  Eat bread well earned as they had stolen it;
What flutterers after joy that forward went,
  And left them in the rear unqueened, unfit
For joy, with light that faints in strugglings drear
Of all things good the most awanting here.