Classic Poem

A TG ENEVA

The poets know, all good is possible.
They peer into the vast as in a dream,
Giving the image of some shadowy boon
The boldness and the certitude of art.
The crowd is tolerant of bard or seer,
And, when his thought strikes deepest in the heart,
Making adventure into heaven or hell,
Owns, " That's a pretty fancy, neatly turned. "
But when there comes the Champion of the Dream
Willing to battle for it, if need be.
To the last desperate inch of broken sword,
" A dream no longer " as his rallying cry —
That is the test of man.
How far it seemed
From vision to fulfillment — joy to joy!
Between, what desolation, what dismay,
What multitudinous sorrow! — till at last
The yearning of the universal hope
Rose to a peak in one determined soul
In whose " It shall be! " spoke the voice of Heaven.
While sceptics doubt and timid whisper fear,
Here half a hundred peoples have clasped hands
In honorable compact: only we —
My noble country counts the cost of peace,
And lingers, half ashamed, half longingly,
Awhile, without the hospitable door.
Here, too, a tower, staunch as was the deed!
Here, at the crossways of the modern world,
Where Leman's meditative mirror hides
The Rhone's green avalanche, as Peace erewhile
Hid turbulent conflict, let the beacon rise
To that sworn servant of mankind. Inscribe
Whatever names below, his be supreme,
That justice may be justice first to him.
Fronting the morning, let there be a bronze
Of one who stands upon a ship, as though
Searching uncertain seas — no Emperor
Envisaged by his fate, the prisoner
Less of Bellerophon than of his past:
But The One Commoner of All the Earth,
With eyes upon the Future, while he holds
Commerce with Heaven for benignanThelp,
Seeking how he may compass from despair
The good of ages and the good of all.
Show the undaunted brow, the stature firm,
The poise against the westward-blowing blast,
The Atlantean loneliness of one who bears
Burdens that in our other holy wars
Our sacred burden-bearers never knew.

Then shall The Wilson Tower be a sign
Of what one man conceived, proclaimed, endured,
In war's ordeal and in toil of peace.
That the pure purpose of our sword be built
Deeper than shifting sands of old intrigue,
Stronger than casual tempests of desire;
That Brotherhood — the myth of centuries,
The faith of martyrs, every poet's dream,
Yea, Bethlehem's evangel — might come true.
All peoples understood him, since he spoke
The other tongue of each, democracy.
Through all the thronging perils of his path
His aim was justice, for he knew full well
If it be done the heavens will not fall.

Loving the lowly and by them beloved,
What greater happiness could them betide
Than from their meagreness to raise this tower.
Each with the smallest token of his land,
Which, consecrated thus, would be restamped
The universal coinage of the heart?
Here, where Helvetia, happy, equal, free,
Her old tradition holds inviolate,
Secure in civic virtue not in law,
Let it arise: that, pondering what it means,
The sentinel and synonym of right,
Nations shall be ashamed to give or take
Less than their due; and all shall kindlier grow;
And those who look on yonder loftiest Alp
And on this highest mark the race has reached,
Shall know that Nature, though she hold our dust,
Cannot o'er-top, or tomb, the soul of Man.