| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 1282. The Soul of the World |
| | | By Ernest Crosby |
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| THE SOUL of the world is abroad to-night— | |
| Not in yon silvery amalgam of moonbeam and ocean, nor in the pink heat-lightning tremulous on the horizon; | |
| Not in the embrace of yonder pair of lovers either, heart beating to heart in the shadow of the fishing-smack drawn up on the beach. | |
| All that—shall I call it illusion? Nay, but at best it is a pale reflection of the truth. | |
| I am not to be put off with symbols, for the soul of the world is itself abroad to-night. | 5 |
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| I neither see nor hear nor smell nor taste nor touch it, but faintly I feel it powerfully stirring. | |
| I feel it as the blind heaving sea feels the moon bending over it. | |
| I feel it as the needle feels the serpentine magnetic current coiling itself about the earth. | |
| I open my arms to embrace it as the lovers embrace each other, but my embrace is all inclusive. | |
| My heart beats to heart likewise, but it is to the heart universal, for the soul of the world is abroad to-night. | 10 |
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