1920] on Science and Poetry 223 



Seeking His secret deeds 



With tears and toiling breath, 

 I find thy cunning seeds, 



million-murdering Death. 



I know this little thing 



A myriad men will save. 

 Death, where is thy sting ? 



Thy victory, Grave ? 



I have not attempted to correct the poor technique of this first draft, 

 but subsequently added two lines left blank in my note book. 

 Perhaps the subject of the stanzas may excuse their imperfections ! 

 After all, that victory over a disease which slays every year many 

 more than a million people may be thought worth commemorating 

 in some kind of verse ! 



My book, " Philosophies," concludes with three lyrics, written in a 

 special music of rhythm and euphony (which you may not like). I 

 call them my paeans of victory. 



Man. 



Man putteth the world to scale 



And weigheth out the stars; 

 Th' eternal hath lost her veil, 



The infinite her bars ; 

 His balance he hath hung in heaven 



And set the sun therein. 



He measures the lords of light 



And fiery orbs that spin; 

 No riddle of darkest night 



He dares not look within ; 

 Athwart the roaring wrack of stars 



He plumbs the chasm of heaven. 



The wings of the wind are his ; 



To him the world is given ; 

 His servant the lightning is, 



And slave the ocean, even ; 

 He scans the mountains yet unclimb'd 



And sounds the solid sea. 



With fingers of thought he holds 



What is or e'er can be ; 

 And, touching it not, unfolds 



The sealed mystery. 

 The pigmy hands, eyes, head God gave 



A giant's are become. 



But tho' to this height sublime 



By labour he hath clomb, 

 One summit he hath to climb, 



One deep the more to plumb — 

 To rede himself and rule himself, 



And so to reach the sum. 



