Not words of routine this song of mine, But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring; This printed and bound book⁠—but the printer and the printing-office boy? The well-taken photographs⁠—but your wife or friend close and solid in your arms? The black ship mail’d with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets⁠—but the pluck of the captain and engineers? In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture⁠—but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes? The sky up there⁠—yet here or next door, or across the way? The saints and sages in history⁠—but you yourself? Sermons, creeds, theology⁠—but the fathomless human brain, And what is reason? and what is love? and what is life?