THE IDEAL

Serenely, from her mountain height sublime,

She mocks my hopeless labor as I creep

Each day a day's strength farther from the deep

And nearer to her side for which I climb.

So may she mock when for the sad last time

I fall, my face still upward, upon sleep,

With faithful hands still yearning up the steep

In patient and pathetic pantomime.

I am content, O ancient, young-eyed child

Of love and longing. Pity not our wars

Of frail-spun flesh, and keep thee undefiled

By all our strife that only breaks and mars.

But let us see from far thy footing, wild

And wayward still against the eternal stars!