Page:Poems, Volume 1, Coates, 1916.djvu/59



ODIN'S it was—this vital thing, this Soul,

This striving force imprisoned in clay,

This monster Shape inert, held in control

By that it doth enshrine:

Rodin's it was; but, ah, to-day

It is the world's—and mine!

What mystery here is meant?

Is this Time's great event—

This creature earthward sent

With subtle might against himself to strive—

To struggle upward from the brutish thing

And, ruling the blood's rioting,

Keep the celestial spark in him alive?

What miracle is meant,

Suggested by this frame relaxed and bent?

What wonders to this Titan are revealed,

Sitting enisled and motionless as if

Lone on some cloud-invested Teneriffe?