REUBEN
Void, void was all about him—Heaven’s huge height,
Earth’s last abyss, the cold and spacious Deep,
The immeasurable spread of unfill’d air,
Not more unmitigated, not more sheer,
Opened about his single shape of man
Than round his soul, unfenced, denuded, lone,
Lay the bare outlook—God! And if then he,
From all his fellows at a distance set
Dumb, at the last with passionate outcry
Dared to his Maker turn: if then awhile
Vainly he stretch’d his soul to measure God;
Arraign’d the judgment of the one just Judge,
Rose in revolt ’gainst Life: who, being man,
That knows the impact of the limits, knows
The wildness of the God-given instincts foil’d—
Reason embattled, smarting struggling sense
Of Justice, thwarted Love-of-law at bay—
Who dare condemn him? And, Who made the wings,
Will He their needs-must beating at the bars
Blame? or disown that power-in-powerlessness,
That vital spirit, which, come enfranchisement,
Straight to His bosom would the bird bear home?
Yet, if he thus strove long (and those few dread
And poignant moments in his tale of life
Outdid the partial measurement of time,
Outvolumed shallower years): far otherwise
Influence more potent, more inveterate,
More fundamental wrought, and, last, prevail’d.
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