Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823–1911)

CAN this be he, whose morning footstep trod

O’er the green earth as in a regal home?

Whose voice rang out beneath the skyey dome

Like the high utterance of a youthful god?

Now with wan looks and gaze that seeks the sod,

Restless and purposeless as ocean-foam,

Across the twilight fields I see him roam

With shoulders bowed, as shrinking from the rod.

O lift the old-time light within thine eyes!

Set free the pristine passion from thy tongue!

Strength grows with burdens; make an end of sighs.

Let thy thoughts soar again their mates among,

And as yon oriole’s eager matins rise,

Abroad once more be thy strong anthem flung!