What says the lore of human power we hold Through all these striving and tumultuous days? “Why not accept each several bloom of good, Without discarding good already gained, As one might weed a garden overgrown-- Save the new shoots, yet not destroy the old? Only the fool would root up his whole patch Of fragrant flowers, to plant the newer seed.” Ah, softly, brothers! Have we not the key, Whose first fine luminous use Plotinus gave, Teaching that ecstasy must lead the man? Three things, we see, men in this life require, (As they are needed in the universe:) First of all spirit, energy, or love, The soul and mainspring of created things; Next wisdom, knowledge, culture, discipline, To guide impetuous spirit to its goal; And lastly strength, the sound apt instrument, Adjusted and controlled to lawful needs. The next world-teacher must be one whose word Shall reaffirm the primacy of soul, Hold scholarship in her high guiding place, And recognize the body’s equal right To culture such as it has never known, In power and beauty serving soul and mind. Inheritors of this divine ideal, With courage to be fine as well as strong, Shall know what common manhood may become, Regain the gladness of his sons of morn, The radiance of immortality. Out of heroic wanderings of the past, And all the wayward gropings of our time, Unswerved by doubt, unconquered by despair, The messengers of such a hope must go; As one who hears far off before the dawn, On some lone trail among the darkling hills, The hermit thrushes in the paling dusk, And at the omen lifts his eyes to see Above him, with its silent shafts of light, The sunrise kindling all the peaks with fire. _The Forum_ _Bliss Carman_ THE DESERTED PASTURE I love the stony pasture That no one else will have, The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave. In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear. Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words. It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls. Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away. Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace. There in the earthly springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew. There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.