MECHANISE OP NATURE 



And woe unto them that falter, 

 To the cumberer in the way! 



Not his blood nor his prayers may alter, 

 Nor the tide of our progress stay. 



On the threshold of mighty ages, 



In this, the triumphal hour, 

 Why is it the worn old pages 



Tell the story of Babel's tower? 



Ah, what means the old, old story, 

 The voices of mortar and stone? 



I Am That I Am, The Eternal, 

 And I am, the fleeting soul. 



Of the changing dust created, 



Of the unknown whence and why; 



To-morrow to dust returning, 

 Yet the glorious conscious I. 



Free and high as the stars of heaven, 

 And each in his own true sphere, 



Who shall say to the least of creation, 

 Thou art but a subject here. 



Each blade and each star and each atom, 

 There is not another the same ; 



And each is alone in his glory, 

 And each is alone in his shame. 

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