The Rag’picker
In the April sun
Shuffling, shapeless, bent,
Cobweb—eyed, with stick
Searching, one by one,
Gutter—heaps, intent
Wretched rags to pick.
Oh, is this a man?—
Man, whose spirit erect
Trampling circumstance,
Death and evil, can
Measure worlds, nor checked
By fell time and chance,
With undaunted eye,
With a mouth of song,
Front the starry blue?—
(O you passers—by,
Moving swift and strong,
Answer, what seek you?)
Husk of manhood, mere
Shrivel of his kind!—
In a bloodless mask
How the old eyes peer,
With no light behind!—
Mate of his mean task;
Yet this wreckage fill
With a thought, possess
With a faith’s empire,
It shall be a will
Mightier than the seas,
Man, more dread than fire!
