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Of good or evil, or we know but part
Of each, where both are infinite and stretch
Beyond the gates of fancy in a mesh
Which yet may be perfection : let us toil
And till the ground and trust what seed be sown.
A mighty deed is this that has been done,
This cutting of the world for all the world ;
For many men have lived, and laughed, and died,
And daisies starred the grass for baby hands
For long smooth-sliding years: the countless past
Like sea-born chalk so heavy with the weight
Of weightless somethings needs must press the Earth,
Before the spade could shift the trickling sand
And let the seas kiss and the world be joined.

'Tis like the west knows little what she gives, Most like her sister knows not what she takes; For, though she recks of little else than gold, To Europe shall there come far other good Than that she dreams of. I have watched a wave In headlong glee give all its strength away Against a cliff, but back in eager haste There runs a new born wavelet to the sea, And climbs the coming billows vanishing In distance, whence it came, to bear the tale Of that new birth : so that which Europe gives Shall Europe take, though changed the same: but she, Her sister, so long exiled from her love, Shall feel a mystic change the while she hears Low messages from God, and all her heart In spite of wrinkling frost shall soon be warmed In rosy light of love, which sparkles out

In many named rays till night be shamed
Far and still farther from the growing day.
Now more than ever surely it is true,
In part at least, that here in England now
The countless fate of all that Eastern world
Is being woven by the daily lives
Of English men and women; here at home
Mid buttercups, and hedges, and the sound
Of ceaseless voices in an echoing room.
Ah! if we could but mind what living means
How naught doth ever end; for we can see
In this our myriad present phantasies
Of joy, and pain, and beauty, such as loom
With dim foreboding of a dawning life
In dreamy depths of awsome childish eyes.
Be still and wonder; lo! a new found world
Doth lift itself towards us, twice as fair
As that which rose from out the mystic West
To those few wind-worn sailors, while they stared
Through strange glad tears half trusting that they saw.
Yes, a new world and wider far than theirs,
A world of men; for what the East shall do
Shall be but words to tell what she hath felt;
Though bars of shadow push across her road,
It yet leads onward; blackest shadow tells
Of brightest sunlight.

Thus my weakling thought
Still sought to shape dim feeling while that mist
Of fancy music lingered, but it died
Faint and yet fainter, till I seemed to wait
And listen still for that which never came.
Egyptian shores and crimson cradled ships

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