Slow Through the Dark
Slow moves the pageant of a climbing race;Their footsteps drag far, far below the height,And, unprevailing by their utmost might,Seem faltering downward from each hard won place.No strange, swift-sprung exception we; we traceA devious way thro’ dim, uncertain light,—Our hope, through the long vistaed years, a sightOf that our Captain’s soul sees face to face.Who, faithless, faltering that the road is steep,Now raiseth up his drear insistent cry?Who stoppeth here to spend a while in sleepOr curseth that the storm obscures the sky?Heed not the darkness round you, dull and deep;The clouds grow thickest when the summit’s nigh.