A WONDROUS wheel is the wheel of the world,
As it spins o'er its fated track,
One-half forever forward whirled,
The other reeling back.

And the man whose being's tiny space
Is bound to the forward crest,
With a carol joins in the conquering race
From the better to the best.

But he whose moment's earthly span
To the under side is thrust,
How smiles this life, think ye, to the man
Flung back through mire or dust?

Yet the caroller's lay is eternally true:
Onward the world-wheel flies.
Yea, the backward-borne moves forward too,
And the falling but sinks to rise.

But, for all the crest, the wheel might pace,
Unstirring, the selfsame round.
That it rolls ahead, ye may thank the base,
Crushed prone, with its grip on the ground!