And it is found again, gathering materials for the play called _The End of the World_ out of the lives of poor and simple people. Here the impulse is clear enough, but sometimes it takes a subtler form, and then it occasionally betrays the poet into a solecism. For his sense of the unity of the race is so strong that natural distinctions sometimes go the way of artificial ones. He has so completely identified himself with humanity, and for preference with the lowly in mind and estate, that he has not seldom endowed a humble personality with his own large gifts. Thus you find Deborah using this magnificent plea for her sweetheart's life: ... there's something sacred about lovers. ..... For there is wondrous more than the joy of life In lovers; there's in them God Himself Taking great joy to love the life He made: We are God's desires more than our own, we lovers, You dare not injure God! Thus, too, a working wainwright suddenly startled into consciousness of the purpose of the life-force muses: Why was I like a man sworn to a thing Working to have my wains in every curve, Ay, every tenon, right and as they should be? Not for myself, not even for those wains: But to keep in me living at its best The skill that must go forward and shape the world, Helping it on to make some masterpiece. And with the same largesse a fiddling vagabond, old and blind, thief, liar, and seducer, is made to utter a lyric ecstasy on the words which are the poet's instrument: Words: they are messengers from out God's heart, Intimate with him; through his deed they go, This passion of him called the world, approving All of fierce gladness in it, bidding leap To a yet higher rapture ere it sink. ... There be Who hold words made of thought. But as stars slide Through air, so words, bright aliens, slide through thought, Leaving a kindled way.