What Are These Bustlers At The Gate Of Now Or Yesterday, These Playthings In The Hand Of Fate, That Pass, And Point No Way; These Clinging Bubbles Whose Mock Fires For Ever Dance And Gleam, Vain Foam That Gathers And Expires Upon The World'S Dark Stream; These Gropers Betwixt Right And Wrong, That Seek An Unknown Goal, Most Ignorant, When They Seem Most Strong; What Are They, Then, O Soul, That Thou Shouldst Covet Overmuch A Tenderer Range Of Heart, And Yet At Every Dreamed-Of Touch So Tremulously Start? Thou With That Hatred Ever New Of The World'S Base Control, That Vision Of The Large And True, That Quickness Of The Soul; Nay, For They Are Not Of Thy Kind, But In A Rarer Clay God Dowered Thee With An Alien Mind; Thou Canst Not Be As They. Be Strong Therefore; Resume Thy Load, And Forward Stone By Stone Go Singing, Though The Glorious Road Thou Travellest Alone.