This page has been validated.
He is dead who sees nothing to change,
No wrong to make right;
Who travels no new way or strange
In search of the light;
Who never sets out for a goal
That he sees from afar
But contents his indifferent soul
With things as they are.
Life isn’t rest—it is toil;
It is building a dream;
It is tilling a parcel of soil
Or bridging a stream;
It’s pursuing the light of a star
That but dimly we see,
And in wresting from things as they are
The joy that should be.
58
