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HE paths being opened, the light beaming in, The hand leading on through the vale; The schedule designed, locomotive in trim, The man at the throttle can't fail; For the roadbed is perfect, the ties all secure, The ballast is true all the way To the terminal point: the Great Union stop; Where the baggage is sorted by day. The way being opened, the planes being reached, The altitudes high in design Are the work of a Hand--we may border the Land-- That may touch what we term the sky-line; But our vision is local; congested our sight, Though we feel in a, casual way The touch of the springtime; the senses are sweet In the hope of the blossoms in May; The conquests of kingdoms, the price being paid; The anguish and sorrow at hand Is part of probation; our equation beyond, As we walk through the eddying sand And study the currents, in anger that flow In martial array, as I see; And life seems a speck, as the atoms that move And come down to the trench, by the sea; The call of the bugle that summons to death The flowers that gladden the land; That stood as the staff, as the idol and pride, As a charm to the generous hand That had given its substance, the gold of its life, For a treasure to sweeten the way When all that was lovely, aside from this charm, Had gone with the ship down the bay; But the sound-waves of life, on the ether which dance O'er the vale of the years as we pass; On the plates of our record are indexed it seems, For the time when the wakening class May see and perceive, with a sense more complete; Mysteries which now are concealed May be thrown on the curtain, why the sun goeth down, When the cause for the price is revealed. |
