Straining my eyes in horror and defeat 
Toward the long vista seen where rescue seems to 
greet. 
 
The vessel fills with brackish foam.  I drink, 
Drink to the end, and stagger on alone 
Without a staff to hold me if I sink 
In the hot quagmires of untrusty stone. 
Foodless and beastless, so despairing grown, 
I know not, care not, only trust that soon 
The sun’s dominion may be overthrown, 
And o’er the wilderness appear the moon 
With cold lips to bestow the inestimable boon. 
 
Still I have never prayed for death, but rather 
Would be found fighting toward the goal I seek, 
Stretching both hands toward a loving father, 
And struggling toward some barren voiceless 
peak 
With feet made stedfast, if God made them 
weak ; 
So, on the journey, in the hottest fight 
I would be found by Death, whose palace bleak 
 
47