Still we build quietly and wait.
The heart may break; the heart is frail;
But a stern, strange ecstasy
Befriends us; and we dare not fail.
The Hand that points the solemn way
May be a wanton hand at best;
The great Word echoing in our souls
May be a bored God's casual jest.
We cannot guess. We only know
'T is written by some awful Pen
We must be torches sacrificed
To light the way for lesser men.