NOT drowsihood and dreams and mere idless, Nor yet the blessedness of strength regained, Alone are in what men call sleep. The past, My unsuspected soul, my parents? voice, The generations of my forbears, yea, The very will of God himself are there And potent-working: so that many a doubt Is wiped away at daylight, many a soil Washed cleanlier, many a puzzle riddled plain. Strong, silent forces push my puny self Towards unguessed issues, and the waking man Rises a Greatheart where a Slave lay down.