A Certain sort of bravery

The Years

Last as first the question rings

Of the Will's long travailings;

Why the All-mover,

Why the All-prover

Ever urges on and measures out the chordless chime of Things.

Heaving dumbly

As we deem,

Moulding numbly

As in dream,

Apprehending not how fare the sentient subjects of Its scheme.

The Pities

Nay; — shall not Its blindness break?

Yea, must not Its heart awake,

Promptly tending

To Its mending

In a genial germing purpose, and for loving-kindness' sake?

Should It never

Curb or cure

Aught whatever

Those endure

Whom It quickens, let them darkle to extinction swift and sure.

Chorus

But — a stirring thrills the air

Like to sounds of joyance there

That the rages

Of the ages

Shall be cancelled, and deliverance offered from the darts that were,

Consciousness the Will informing, till It fashion all things fair!

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