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U NC OL L E C T E D A N D O T H E R P OE M S | 147 No wonder that our homes are rent, That brother hateth brother, No wonder that our lives are spent In ruining each other. No wonder that the most of men Still hunt and fight for good— The wonder is that any one Is ever half so good. But this is Christmas time, my son, Go get your broken toys, And give to the ungrateful hands Of poorer girls and boys. (Impress, 22 December 1894, 5) Ideas. (After Emerson)17 We do not makes ideas: they flow From wondrous unknown gulfs behind, Down into the receptive mind. We seize them as they go And seek to clothe the naked thought, Each with what skill his trade hath taught, In picture, music, pile of stone, Statue, or book, or speech alone, That we may keep and share it so. Who faileth to arrest— The formless flying guest Is left forlorn; Later, he sees the face That once his dreams did grace, Drawn by another’s hand In deathless beauty stand, And thinks—“To me this child was born!”18 (In This Our World, II, 107) The Teacher Who leads the world in its long upward way? Who rules the world with scepter still unknown? Who, above all, should we devoutly own As leader, and our gladdest tribute pay? The sword no longer holds its iron sway, The monarch in tradition sits alone; The growth of man in a child’s eyes is shown, And whoso leads the child, leads us to-day. ...

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