Classic Poem

I am sick with the sickness of the world:
I have followed the stream up and down and seen the debris on the tide,
And I have heard the cries of the failures as they were swept away and lost,
And I have seen how hollow and useless success was to its deceived victims,
And I have tasted the bitter and sweet of fame and found the applause of the crowd drowned in its groans,
And I have watched men go wrong and when asked why they should go right have said I could give no reasons for virtue,
And I have confused myself in the darkness of arguments and philosophies and given up hunting for the scriptured truth,
And I have even turned against love and accused it of overweighing and overmeasuring its collateral,
And I have given up the radiance of the skies for the slime and mud of the swamp,
And I have called men back from their ideals and set them to work hoeing and digging and asking no questions of the future,
And I have sterilized the harvest field with the paling cowardice of my despair,
So that the prospect wherever we look is hopeless and offers us no compensations:
The faded dreams repudiated with scorn and sold for junk to the buyers of life.

I am the asker of questions:
I knock at all doors and ask questions of those inside:
I appear in college halls and question the teachers and students assembled,
I push into the churches and straight to the pulpit place and ask for God:
(The priests say God is out and I suspect that God is oftenest out to the churches):
I go to trade, into its mad clamor, and drop my questions there tumbling the prices to chaos.
I ask my questions: but incomes do not understand what I mean:
Only the soul knows what I mean and assents to my call.
But the world is sick: the world is in bed: the doctors are helpless:
Call me: let me be the world's physician—let me prescribe for the sick world.
Yes, dear brother: the world is sick near to death.
But let me say it: the faint world will revive—the world will get well:
The home is sick in the tenement,
The well fed child is sick in the starveling,
The judge who sentences is sick in the prisoner who is sentenced,
The saints are sick in the sinners,
The woman beyond pay is sick in the prostitute:
The world over the masters are sick in the slaves,
The world over the good every way is sick in the bad,
The world over the dreams are sick in the facts:
I see the fearful contest going on around me giving no quarter,
All that should be beautiful and well being hideous and sick:
All everywhere waiting sick until all everywhere may catch up and be well:
The drag of the bad on the good delaying the earth—
The drag of the sick on the well holding the pioneers back:
The well world waiting sorrowfully for the sick world to catch up—
Waiting in darkness and trembling for fear the sick will never catch up,
Knowing that if the sick fail to catch up the journey of the well world is wasted.

I am sick with the sickness of the world:
Keep me, dear world, near your shuddering heart:
I dont want to go on without you—not a step:
We must go on together—to fruition or death: go on together or not at all:
I see the light that will lead us true: but if you do not see it then I too am blind:
I have feet and courage to bear me up: but if your feet are sore and your courage is gone then I will stay with you where you are:
I will not cut loose, I will not disown my brother pilgrims:
The fate of my brothers is my fate—the victory, the defeat:
The love of my brothers is my love—the pure, the profane:
The life of my brothers is my life—the elation, the distress:
The god of my brothers is my god—the care, the neglect.
So do I stay close to my brother no matter what happens,
Lying now today on his bed of sickness in pain with his pain:
I am sick with the sickness of the world.