With the tortures of thought in the throes,。，As flower-bush in sun-specked crag,
If men had risen to do the work of heads.。，Their battle, their loss, their ache,
Down the slopes of the shoreward way; -。，Sheer film of the surface awag:
We tower to flower,。，A scale still ascending to knit
Of magnitude to magnitude is wrought,。，
She who dotes over ripeness at play,。，Her law as the one common weal.
Unshaken though elements lour;。，In thought mid-ferry between
The loathed recess of his dens;。，A scale still ascending to knit
Of meaning in her repartee.。，The small coin, whitens red blood.
Myself I had lost of us twain,。，With all of their past and the now,
With thee, O fount of the Untimed! to lead,。，I fled nothing, nothing pursued:
To Youth's wild forest, where sprang,。，And its clasp of the staves that snap;
To fall on daylight; and night puts away。，Now gazed I where, sole upon gloom,
So may we read, and little find them cold:。，The busy wild things chase and lure.
Let it but be the lord of Mind to guide。，
The dream of the blossom of Good。，And see the flat universe reel;
For a conquest of coward despair; -。，Their primal instincts taming, to escape
，For these with their ways were her feast;。，Earth-rooted, tangibly wood,