Classic Poem

Is the stern old story shattered,
Questioned, doubted, or denied,
Of the world wherein our father
Fell from innocence to pride?

Is that wondrous antique tracing
Of the giant primal bliss,
Is it lost, outgrown, abandoned,
Rated, scouted—and for this?

Strange the tale was, rude of image:
Full of symbols: eastern, old,
Yet one thought did burn into us
From that glimmering age of gold.

From the loins of one great father
Came each nation, race and horde,
From one raw red clay, awakened
By the nostrils of the Lord.

Masqued by birth or creed or Kinghood,
Still the living fact remained,
Brother at the throat of brother,
Brother crowned and brother chained.

You, who trace elsewhere the issue
Of the primal man and wife;
You who see through mists of ages
Five great fountain heads of life—

Do not yield your story lightly;
No, nor blame it, or forsake.
Only read a tale, a vision
That came to me, when you spake.