He would not trust me with the smallest orb That circles through the sky; he would not give A meteor to my guidance; would not leave The coloring of a cloudlet to my hand; He locks my beating heart beneath its bars And keeps the key himself; he measures out The draughts of vital breath that warm my blood, Winds up the springs of instinct which uncoil, Each in its season; ties me to my home, My race, my time, my nation, and my creed So closely that if I but slip my wrist Out of the band that cuts it to the bone, Men say, “He hath a devil”; he has lent All that I hold in trust, as unto one By reason of his weakness and his years Not fit to hold the smallest shred in fee Of those most common things he calls his own And yet--my Rabbi tells me--he has left The care of that to which a million worlds. Filled with unconscious life were less than naught, Has left that mighty universe, the Soul, To the weak guidance of our baby hands, Turned us adrift with our immortal charge, Let the foul fiends have access at their will, Taking the shape of angels, to our hearts, Our hearts already poisoned through and through With the fierce virus of ancestral sin. If what my Rabbi tells me is the truth, Why did the choir of angels sing for joy? Heaven must be compassed in a narrow space, And offer more than room enough for all That pass its portals; but the underworld, The godless realm, the place where demons forge Their fiery darts and adamantine chains, Must swarm with ghosts that for a little while Had worn the garb of flesh, and being heirs Of all the dulness of their stolid sires, And all the erring instincts of their tribe, Nature's own teaching, rudiments of “sin,” Fell headlong in the snare that could not fail To trap the wretched creatures shaped of clay And cursed with sense enough to lose their souls!