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I see the spire, I see the throng, I hear the choir, I hear the song; I listen to the anthem, while It pours its volume down the aisle; I listen to the splendid rhyme That, with a melody sublime, Tells of some far-off, fadeless clime Of man and his finality, Of hope, and immortality. Oh, theme of themes I Are men mistaught? Are hopes like dreams, To come to naught? Is all the beautiful and good Delusive and misunderstood? And has the soul no forward reach? And do indeed the facts impeach The theories the teachers teach? And is this immortality Delusion, or reality? What hope reveals Mind tries to clasp, But soon it reels With broken grasp. No chain yet forged on anvil's brink Was stronger than its weakest link; And are there not along this chain Imperfect links that snap in twain When caught in logic's tensile strain? And is not immortality The child of ideality? And yet -- at times -- We get advice That seems like chimes From paradise; The soul doth sometimes seem to be In sunshine which it cannot see; At times the spirit seems to roam Beyond the land, above the foam, Back to some half-forgotten home. Perhaps -- this immortality May be indeed reality. |
