But
trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. They say,
The
solid earth whereon we tread
In
tracts of fluent heat began,
And grew to seeming-random forms,
The seeming prey of cyclic storms,
Till
at the last arose the man;
Who
throve and branch’d from clime to clime,
The herald of a higher race,
And of himself in higher place,
If
so he type this work of time
Within
himself, from more to more;
Or, crown’d with attributes of woe
Like glories, move his course, and show
That
life is not as idle ore,
But
iron dug from central gloom,
And heated hot with burning fears,
And dipt in baths of hissing tears,
And
batter’d with the shocks of doom
To
shape and use. Arise and fly
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;
Move upward, working out the beast,
And
let the ape and tiger die.