(From Twilight Clear, also appeared in Valor magazine, Vol.4, no.1, Nov, 1952)

What shall we reach at the end of our course?
What shall we chant as a psalm?
What shall we meet at the crest of our climb?
What shall we enter for calm?

What but the Light that we left for the dark?
What but High Anthem Serene?
What but the Silence, as soft as a cloud,
That veils the New Glory unseen?

We came down the Height in the fine dawn of birth,
To enter the dales of the dense;
We grope and we stumble our Earth-Pact to keep,
And beg not the Whither nor Whence.

We seek out the Right and behold it veers Left,
We drink a strong draught to the proud,
Enticements of Mammon our errands deflect
And we barter the Soft for the Loud.

Yet keep we the Faith through the wrack of High Strife!
Our music draws key from the Soul!
The concourse we sight to the Far Reach of Thought,
Has a Harp and a Sob for its toll.

We harden Mind's biceps through vigor and dare,
We open Life's page to the thought;
"It isn't the rage on the page that we seek
But the peace with which Wisdom is bought!"

Sweet singers, we Brave, to the bugle-note sharp,
To give us the pence for the deal
Of that which besought us to come from the Heights
And learn our hearts' cores for their steel!

World-Iife's an Adventure, cloud-shrouded in pearl,
So why should Mind wander or nod?
'Tis sojourn from Splendor to test out our pluck,
We're on holiday absence from God!

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