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T H E WOR L D | 39 We waste our love,—poured into the sky, Across the ocean, into desert lands, Sunk in one narrow circle next ourselves,— While these, our brothers, suffer—are alone. Ye may not pass the near to love the far; Ye may not love the near and stop at that. Love spreads through man, not over or around! Yea, grievously we waste; and all the time Humanity is waiting,—wanting sore. Waste not, my brothers, and ye shall not want! Wings A sense of wings— Soft downy wings and fair— Great wings that whistle as they sweep Along the still gulfs—empty, deep— Of thin blue air. Doves’ wings that follow, Doves’ wings that fold, Doves’ wings that flutter down To nestle in your hold. Doves’ wings that settle, Doves’ wings that rest, Doves’ wings that brood so warm Above the little nest. Larks’ wings that rise and rise, Climbing the rosy skies— Fold and drop down To birdlings brown. Light wings of wood-birds, that one scarce believes Moved in the leaves. The quick, shy flight Of wings that flee in fright— A start as swift as light— Only the shaken air To tell that wings were there. Broad wings that beat for many days Above the land wastes and the water ways; Beating steadily on and on, Through dark and cold, Through storms untold, Till the far sun and summer land is won. 40 | In This Our World And wings— Wings that unfold With such wide sweep before your would-be hold— Such glittering sweep of whiteness—sun on snow— Such mighty plumes—strong-ribbed, strong-webbed—strong-knit to go From earth to heaven! Hear the air flow back In their wide track! Feel the sweet wind these wings displace Beat on your face! See the great arc of light like rising rockets trail They leave in leaving— They avail— These wings—for flight! The Heart of the Water O the ache in the heart of the water that lies Underground in the desert, unopened, unknown, While the seeds lie unbroken, the blossoms unblown, And the traveller wanders—the traveller dies! O the joy in the heart of the water that flows From the well in the desert,—a desert no more,— Bird-music and blossoms and harvest in store, And the white shrine that showeth the traveler knows! The Ship The sunlight is mine! And the sea! And the four wild winds that blow! The winds of heaven that whistle free— They are but slaves to carry me Wherever I choose to go! Fire for a power inside! Air for a pathway free! I traverse the earth in conquest wide; The sea is my servant! The sea is my bride! And the elements wait on me! . . . . . . . . In dull green light, down-filtered sick and slow Through miles of heavy water overhead, With miles of heavy water yet below, A ship lies, dead. Shapeless and broken, swayed from side to side, The helpless driftwood of an unknown tide. ...

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