Music — Poetry — Fiction 

 By this I adjure thee, brother, 1906 



ID 7 ~ i .tf J t Wilkinson 



Lie slow to offend! 

 For the least, the blindfolded, the conquered 

 Shall judge in the end. 



The man strove with his maker 

 At the clang of the power-house door : 



Lord, Lord, Thou art unsearchable, 

 Troubling me sore. 



I have thrust my spade to the caverns ; 



I have yoked the cataract; 

 I have counted the steps of the planets. 



What thing have I lacked? 

 I am come to a goodly country, 



Where, putting my hand to the plow, 

 I have not considered the lilies. 



Am I less than Thou? 



The maker spake with the man 

 At the terminal-house of the line: 



For delight wouldst thou have desolation 

 O brother mine, 



And flaunt on the highway of nations 

 A byword and sign? 



Have I fashioned thee then in my image 



And quickened thy spirit of old, 

 If thou spoil my garments of wonder 



For a handful of gold? 

 I wrought for thy glittering possession 



The waterfall's glorious lust; 

 It is genesis, revelation, — 



Wilt thou grind it to dust? 



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