SONNETS

Brave racer, who hast sped the living light

With throat outstretched and every nerve a-strain,

Now on thy left hand labors gray-faced Pain,

And Death hangs close behind thee on the right.

Soon flag the flying feet, soon fails the sight,

With every pulse the gaunt pursuers gain;

And all thy splendor of strong life must wane

And set into the mystery of night.

Yet fear not, though in falling, blindness hide

Whose hand shall snatch, before it scars the sod,

The light thy lessening grasp no more controls:

Truth's rescuer, Truth shall instantly provide:

This is the torch-race game, that noblest souls

Play on through time beneath the eyes of God.