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Slow Through The Dark

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            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 trace
  A devious way thro' dim, uncertain light,—
  Our hope, through the long vistaed years, a sight
Of 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 sleep
Or 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.

This work was published before January 1, 1924, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.