Not what is true in this place or in yon,
But what is truest for the whole world's ill,
Rolling its stone eternal up its hill,
Or Ixion-like, stretched fate's grim wheel upon,
Hungering long o'er opportunity gone;
Or like blind Samson, grinding his grim mill,
Crippled and futile; yet with one sweet thrill
For some old springtime or unrisen dawn;

That somewhere, sometime, through the fateful years,
Earth's disappointment and her urgent strife,
Man's soul might reach some outer door of life;
And stripped of folly's garb and time's poor fears,
Grow large and godlike, as those cloud-dreams furled,
And splendid deeps that drift about the world.