An Exhortation

Take the wheel of your racing-car,

Mover, yourself unmoved

Though Aeolus bid his winds rise from the cave

And pile storm-clouds, bar on bar,

Against a progress he has not approved.

Pay no heed to this lord's decree

Who even as you steer

Through the first layer of rack will be your slave,

Changed by the fierce sympathy

That, passing across vapor, leaves it clear.