To End The Apathy
The call comes out from all the past
And bids me run to 't fast,
But only when my pleasure fills
With blends of daffodils;
But then I think of all the cast,
Of my own gloom at last.
The past bids me to ponder much,
As down does come its touch,
O'er sunbeam's glare and spider's trap
And every greedy map;
And all the plight and bungle done
They come now to their sun.
Why save your day and not the world,
Which must not be so curled?
By Godly depths that must be true,
And not the human screw,
We men of present can do all
And save the Earth from fall.