Up still and staggering to the doubtful goal, 
Feet dragging horribly behind, I move 
Deathlike for dearth and for despair of soul ; 
At last I drop.  From Heaven there comes a 
Dove 
Bearing the semblance of the Man I love, 
And fountains and fresh grass by magic spell 
Are suddenly around me.  And above 
I hear the voice my visions know so well : 
“ Well striven all this day against the power of 
Hell ! ” 
 
I know these mercies still diviner grow 
Each day I strive, but should I sit and rest 
One hour of dawn, and cry, “ I will not go 
Another step without more sleep,” that blest 
Dove flies away, the fountains are repressed, 
The grass is withered, and the angry sky 
Rages more fierce that day, and from the crest 
Of black foul mountains comes a bitter cry : 
“ He that returneth now shall in destruction die.” 
 
So I press on.  Fresh strength from day to day 
Girds up my loins and beckons me on high, 
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