And where this vision is not, or the seers

Are lightly counted of, the people perish.

And woe unto our country, if indeed

She has left off this wisdom, or esteems

This for her higher wisdom—to despise

All spiritual purpose, all far-looking aim,{6}

{6}

And all that cannot be exchanged for gold—

Woe unto her, and turbulent unrest

Unto ourselves, who cannot hope or wish

In her disquiet to lead quiet lives,

Or to withdraw out of the stormy press

And tumult—to withdraw and keep the latch

Close fastened of our little world apart,

A peaceful island in a stormy sea,

A patch of sunshine amid shadows lying;

This must not be, we were not called to this.

And all the peace we know must be within,

And from within—from that glad river fed,

Whose springs lie deeper than that heat or cold,

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