Ever the undiscouraged, resolute, struggling soul of man; (Have former armies fail'd? then we send fresh armies--and fresh again); Ever the grappled mysteries of all earth's ages old or new; Ever the eager eyes, hurrahs, the welcome-clapping hands, the loud applause; Ever the soul dissatisfied, curious, unconvinced at last, Struggling to-day the same--battling the same. [_Life_] Spirit that form'd this scene, These tumbled rock-piles grim and red, These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks, These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness, These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own, I know thee, savage spirit--we have communed together, Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own; Was't charged against my chants they had forgotten art? To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse? The lyrist's measur'd beat, the wrought-out temple's grace--column and polish'd arch forgot? But thou that revellest here--spirit that form'd this scene, They have remember'd thee. [_Spirit That Formed This Scene_] Quicksand years that whirl me I know not whither, Your schemes, politics, fail, lines give way, substances mock and elude me, Only the theme I sing, the great and strong-possess'd soul, eludes not, One's-Self must never give way--that is the final substance--that out of all is sure, Out of politics, triumphs, battles, life, what at last finally remains? When shows break up what but One's-Self is sure? [_Quicksand Years_] O living always, always dying! O the burials of me past and present, O me while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever; O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not, I am content); O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look at where I cast them, To pass on (O living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind. [_O Living Always, Always Dying_] This is thy hour, O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars. [_A Clear Midnight_] I was thinking the day most splendid till I saw what the not-day exhibited, I was thinking this globe enough till there sprang out so noiseless around me myriads of other globes.