I know but two who have attained,
Save thee, to see their way.
By England's lakes, in gray old age,
His quiet home one keeps;
And one, the strong much-toiling sage,
In German Weimar sleeps.
But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken
From half of human fate;
And Goethe's course few sons of men
May think to emulate.
For he pursued a lonely road,
His eyes on Nature's plan;
Neither made man too much a god,
Nor God too much a man.
Strong was he, with a spirit free
From mists, and sane and clear;
Clearer, how much! than ours—yet we
Have a worse course to steer.
For, though his manhood bore the blast
Of a tremendous time,
Yet in a tranquil world was passed
His tenderer youthful prime.
But we, brought forth and reared in hours
Of change, alarm, surprise,—
What shelter to grow ripe is ours?
What leisure to grow wise?
Like children bathing on the shore,
Buried a wave beneath,
The second wave succeeds before
We have had time to breathe.
