Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/170

142 Through mid-seas now our ship doth roar—

A wild, new, teeming world of men

That wakens in the poet's brain

Thoughts, that were never thought before,

Of hope, and longing, and despair,

Wherein man's never-resting race

Westward, still westward, on doth fare,

Doth still subdue, and still aspire,

Or turning on itself doth face

Its own indomitable fire;—

O million-centuried thoughts that make

The Past seem but a shallop's wake!