Classic Poem

Who is the infidel? 'Tis he
Who deems man's thought should not be free,
Who'd veil truth's faintest ray of light
From breaking on the human sight;
'Tis he who purposes to bind
The slightest fetter on the mind,
Who fears lest wreck and wrong be wrought
To leave man loose with his own thought;
Who, in the clash of brain with brain,
Is fearful lest the truth be slain,
That wrong may win and right may flee —
This is the infidel. 'Tis he.

Who is the infidel? 'Tis he
Who puts a bound on what may be;
Who fears time's upward slope shall end
On some far summit — and descend;
Who trembles lest the long-borne light,
Far-seen, shall lose itself in night;
Who doubts that life shall rise from death
When the old order perisheth;
That all God's spaces may be cross't
And not a single soul be lost —
Who doubts all this, who'er he be,
This is the infidel. 'Tis he.

Who is the infidel? 'Tis he
Who from his soul's own light would flee;
Who drowns with creeds of noise and din
The still small voice that speaks within;
'Tis he whose jangled soul has leaned
To that bad lesson of the fiend,
That worlds roll on in lawless dance,
Nowhither through the gulfs of chance;
And that some feet may never press
A pathway through the wilderness
From midnight to the morn-to-be —
This is the infidel. 'Tis he.

Who is the infidel? 'Tis he
Who sees no beauty in a tree;
For whom no world-deep music hides
In the wide anthem of the tides;
For whom no glad bird-carol thrills
From off the million-throated hills;
Who sees no order in the high
Procession of the star-sown sky;
Who never feels his heart beguiled
By the glad prattle of a child;
Who has no dreams of things to be —
This is the infidel. 'Tis he.