The Rag—picker

In the April sun Shuffling, shapeless, bent, Cobweb--eyed, with stick Searching, one by one, Gutter--heaps, intent Wretched rags to pick. Oh, is this a man?-- Man, whose spirit erect Trampling circumstance, Death and evil, can Measure worlds, nor checked By fell time and chance, With undaunted eye, With a mouth of song, Front the starry blue?-- (O you passers--by, Moving swift and strong, Answer, what seek you?) Husk of manhood, mere Shrivel of his kind!-- In a bloodless mask How the old eyes peer, With no light behind!-- Mate of his mean task; Yet this wreckage fill With a thought, possess With a faith's empire, It shall be a will Mightier than the seas, Man, more dread than fire!