“Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day,
What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee? 
Lapsed water cannot flow above its source;
‘The kid must browse,’” they said, “‘where she is tied.’”

Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them. 
What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed
And crownless?—­Set the crown on her fair head: 
She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee
“Thou art the man.”  He that hath ears to hear,
To him the mother cries “Thou art the man.”

She murmurs, for thy mother’s voice is low—­
“Methought the men of war were even as gods
The old men of the ages.  Now mine eyes
Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls
That buried it; from carved and curious homes
Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil,
Where having burned, battered, and wasted them,
They flung it.  Give us, give us better gods
Than these that drink with blood upon their hands,
For I repent me that I worshipped them. 
O that there might be yet a going up! 
O to forget—­and to begin again!”

Is not thy mother’s rede at one with theirs
Who cry “The work is done”?  What though to thee,
Thee only, should the utterance shape itself
“O to forget, and to begin again,”
Only of thee be heard as that keen cry
Rending its way from some distracted heart
That yields it and so breaks?  Yet list the cry
Begin for her again, and learn to sing;
But first, in all thy learning learn to be. 
Is life a field? then plough it up—­re-sow
With worthier seed—­Is life a ship?  O heed
The southing of thy stars—­Is life a breath? 
Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour,
Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul.

It may be God’s first work is but to breathe
And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air
That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds. 
A little space is measured out to us
Of His long leisure; breathe and grow therein,
For life, alas! is short, and “When we die
It is not for a little while.”

They said,
“The work is done,” and is it therefore done? 
Speak rather to thy mother thus:  “All-fair,
Lady of ages, beautiful To-day
And sorrowful To-day, thy children set
The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss
Is like to be the loss of all:  we hear
Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain
Loss of high leadership, but where is he
That shall be great enough to lead thee now? 
Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him. 
Where?  Thou hast wakened as a child in the night
And found thyself alone.  The stars have set,
There is great darkness, and the dark is void
Of music.  Who shall set thy life afresh
And sing thee thy new songs?  Whom wilt thou love
And lean on to break silence worthily—­
Discern the beauty in thy goings—­feel
The glory of thy yearning,—­thy self-scorn
Matter to dim oblivion with a smile—­
Own thy great want, that knew not its great name? 
O who shall make to thee mighty amends
For thy lost childhood, joining two in one,
Thyself and Him?  Behold Him, He is near: 
God is thy Poet now.