O what are heroes prophets men But pipes through which the breath of Pan doth blow A momentary music. Being's tide Swells hitherward & myriads of forms Live, robed with beauty, painted by the Sun: Their dust pervaded by the nerves of God Throbs with an overmastering energy Knowing & doing. Ebbs the tide, they lie White hollow shells upon the desart shore. But not the less the eternal wave rolls on To animate new millions, & exhale Races & planets its enchanted foam. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG OF THE BROAD-AXE by WALT WHITMAN PLAYING IT SAFE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS WHITE HEAD by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN THE GIRL'S LAMENTATION by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM AN AUTUMN NIGHT by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE SONG OF THE ILL-BELOVED; TO PAUL LEAUTARD by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE |