The Soul’s Pride Poem by Emily Pfeiffer

AND, mother, if nor sleep nor death may be
Till, slaves of Time, we drain his poisoned cup,
Still let no lifeless images set up
Perturb our sinking soul's long agony.
Gods without hearing, gods that cannot see,
Are idols all; how to the reckless troop
Of science and its forces should we stoop
To worship who can suffer and be free?

Needless cold altars plead against these new
Unheeding Baals for Him quick hearts approve
With answering fire; the soul that knows her due
Holds herself lifted high as heaven above
All heartless postulates, if only through
The power to feel one pang of dying love.