Songs of the Spirit

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