“WHY, when the world’s great mind Hath finally inclined, Why,” you say, Critias, “be debating still? Why, with these mournful rhymes Learned in more languid climes, Blame our activity Who, with such passionate will, Are what we mean to be?” Critias, long since, I know (For Fate decreed it so), Long since the world hath set its heart to live; Long since, with credulous zeal It turns life’s mighty wheel, Still doth for laborers send Who still their labor give, And still expects an end. Yet, as the wheel flies round, With no ungrateful sound Do adverse voices fall on the world’s ear. Deafened by his own stir The rugged laborer Caught not till then a sense So glowing and so near Of his omnipotence. So, when the feast grew loud In Susa’s palace proud, A white-robed slave stole to the Great King’s side. He spake—the Great King heard; Felt the slow-rolling word Swell his attentive soul; Breathed deeply as it died, And drained his mighty bowl.
The World and the Quietist
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