Classic Poem

Headless horses, human torsos,
Waiting arms and legs-to-be,
Wings detached, and groups dissevered,—
Chaos, welter, anarchy!
Yet each shard a shred of beauty,
Yet each curve a sweep of grace,
Wings that hint the coming angel,
Arms that prophesy the face.

In a way and at a moment
Known, predestined, all shall meet,
Mated, wedded, in the glory
Of the Master's thought complete;
Every limb achieve its gesture,
Every torso find its whole,
Every cluster act its drama
In some rapture of the Soul.

As I look, the vision widens,
Vanishes the city fair,
Round me History's vast horizons
Strewn with wreckage and despair;
Here the limb and there the torso,
Severed wings and hands and feet:
Ruin? Nay, but coming glory,
Glory of the Man Complete!

Man the Gardener—Man the Builder—
Man the Singer of the song—
Man the Thinker—Man the Brother—
Man the Righter of the wrong!
Onward, upward, through the ages
Shaping Nature to its plan,
Lo, the cosmic thought emerges,—
Lo, the Son of God in Man!