Half-Way
THE world is not the dream of living gold
We dreamed when we were young;
Then, all the glory that the west could hold
Burned, fold on fold,
A molten veil across its portals flung
Behind whose shade the years lay sleeping still,
Like tales untold;
But now, beyond the beeches bare and chill,
Beyond the woods set far upon the hill,
The clouds are cold.
And life is not the journey we had planned
As we set out with morn;
We said, ‘We shall rest here and view the land,
Or take our stand
Upon these hills to see the ripening corn,
Or step aside along the mere to mark
The wild-fowl band;’
But now, we know we must tread swift and stark,
If we would cross the desert ere the dark
Creeps on the sand.
And death is not the dim and distant shade
So far against the sky;
The half-seen trap for others waiting laid,
While we, arrayed
In pride and plume of youth, go sweeping by.
We thought to meet him with a spirit braced
By conquests made;
But now, we know, when half the road is traced,
Our hope is but to reach him undisgraced
And unafraid.
