Chapter II

O God, our Father, God!--
Who gav'st us fire,
To soar beyond the sod,
To rise, aspire--
What though we strive and strive,
And all our soul says 'live'?
The empty scorn of men
Will sneer it down again.
And, O sun-centred high,
Who, too, art Poet,
Beneath Thy tender sky
Each day new Keatses die,
Calling all life a lie;
Can this be so--and why?--
And canst Thou know it?