The Question Whither

I When we have thrown off this old suit, So much in need of mending, To sink among the naked mute, Is that, think you, our ending? We follow many, more we lead, And you who sadly turf us, Believe not that all living seed Must flower above the surface. II Sensation is a gracious gift, But were it cramped to station, The prayer to have it cast adrift Would spout from all sensation. Enough if we have winked to sun, Have sped the plough a season; There is a soul for labour done, Endureth fixed as reason. III Then let our trust be firm in Good, Though we be of the fasting; Our questions are a mortal brood, Our work is everlasting. We children of Beneficence Are in its being sharers; And Whither vainer sounds than Whence, For word with such wayfarers.