Of all the dull, dead weights man ever bore, Sure, none can wear the soul with discontent Like consciousness of power unused. To feel That one has gift to move the multitude,-- To act upon the life of humankind By force of will, or fire of eloquence, Or voice of lofty art, and yet, to feel No stir of mighty motive in the soul To action or endeavor; to behold The fairest prizes of this fleeting life Borne off by patient men who, day by day, By bravest toil and struggle, reach the heights Of great achievement, toiling, struggling thus With a strong joy, and with a fine contempt For soft and selfish passion; to see this, Yet cling to such a passion, like a slave Who hugs his chains in sluggish impotence, Refusing freedom lest he lose the crust The chain of bondage warrants him--ah! this Is misery indeed! Such misery Was mine. I held the consciousness of power To labor even-headed with the best Who wrought for fame, or strove to make themselves Felt in the world's great life; and yet, I felt No lift to enterprise, from heaven above Or earth beneath; for neither God nor man Lived in my love. My home held all my world; Yet it was evident--I felt, I knew-- That nought could fill my opening want but toil; And there were times when I had hailed with joy The curse of poverty, compelling me To labor for my bread, and for the bread Of those I loved. My neighbors all around Were happy in their work. The plodding hind Who served my hand, or groomed my petted horse. Whistled about his work with merry heart, And filled his measure of content with toil. In all the streets and all the busy fields, Men were astir, and doing with their might What their hands found to do. They drove the plough, They trafficked, builded, delved, they spun and wove, They taught and preached, they hasted up and down Each on his little errand, and their eyes Were full of eager fire, as if the earth And all its vast concerns were on their hands. Their homes were fresh with guerdon every night, And ripe with impulse to new industry At each new dawn.