See, out of line a single corn-stem stands Advanced beyond the foremost of his bands, And waves his blades upon the very edge And hottest thicket of the battling hedge. Thou lustrous stalk, that canst nor walk nor talk, Still dost thou type the poet-soul sublime That leads the vanward of his timid time, And sings up cowards with commanding rhyme-- Soul calm, like thee, yet fain, like thee, to grow By double increment, above, below; Soul homely, as thou art, yet rich in grace like thee, Teaching the yeomen selfless chivalry, That moves in gentle curves of courtesy; Soul filled like thy long veins with sweetness tense, By every godlike sense Transmuted from the four wild elements. Toward the empyrean Thou reachest higher up than mortal man, Yet ever piercest downward in the mould, And keepest hold Upon the reverend and steadfast earth That gave thee birth. Yea, standest smiling in thy very grave, Serene and brave, With unremitting breath Inhaling life from death, Thine epitaph writ fair in fruitage eloquent, Thy living self thy monument. As poets should, Thou hast built up thy hardihood With wondrous-varying food, Drawn in select proportion fair From solid mould and vagrant air; From terrors of the dreadful night, And joyful light; From antique ashes, whose departed flame In thee has finer life and longer fame; From wounds and balms, From storms and calms, From potsherds and dry bones, And ruin-stones. So to thy vigorous substance thou hast wrought Whate'er the hand of Circumstance hath brought; Yea, into cool solacing green hast spun White radiance hot from out the sun. So thou dost mutually leaven Strength of earth with grace of heaven; So thou dost marry new and old Into a one of higher mould; So thou dost reconcile the hot and cold, The dark and bright, And many a heart-perplexing opposite: And so, Akin by blood to high and low, Fitly thou playest out thy poet's part, Richly expending thy much-bruised heart In equal care to nourish lord in hall Or beast in stall: Thou took'st from all that thou might'st give to all. O steadfast dweller on the selfsame spot Where thou wast born, that still repinest not-- Type of the home-fond heart, the happy lot!-- Deeply thy mild content rebukes the land Whose flimsy homes, built on the shifting sand Of trade, for ever rise and fall With alternation whimsical, Enduring scarce a day, Then swept away By swift engulfments of incalculable tides Whereon capricious Commerce rides.