Let me not pursue many paths to gather many things.

Let me not bend my heart to the yoke of the many.

Let me hold my head high in the courage and pride of being your
servant.



LXXXIV

THE OARSMEN

Do you hear the tumult of death afar,
The call midst the fire-floods and poisonous clouds
--The Captain's call to the steersman to turn the ship to an
unnamed shore,
For that time is over--the stagnant time in the port--
Where the same old merchandise is bought and sold in an endless
round,
Where dead things drift in the exhaustion and emptiness of truth.

They wake up in sudden fear and ask,
"Comrades, what hour has struck?
When shall the dawn begin?"
The clouds have blotted away the stars--
Who is there then can see the beckoning finger of the day?
They run out with oars in hand, the beds are emptied, the mother
prays, the wife watches by the door;
There is a wail of parting that rises to the sky,