THE PILOT
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rom the Past and UnavailingOut of cloudland we are steering;After groping, after fearing,Into starlight we come trailing,And we find the stars are true.Still, O comrade, what of you?You are gone, but we are sailing,And the old ways are all new. For the Lost and UnreturningWe have drifted, we have waited;Uncommanded and unrated,We have tossed and wandered, yearningFor a charm that comes no moreFrom the old lights by the shore:We have shamed ourselves in learningWhat you knew so long before. For the Breed of the Far-goingWho are strangers, and all brothers,May forget no more than othersWho look seaward with eyes flowing.But are brothers to bewailOne who fought so foul a gale?You have won beyond our knowing,You are gone, but yet we sail. VICKERY’S MOUNTAIN Blue in the west the mountain stands,And through the long twilightVickery sits with folded hands,And Vickery’s eyes are bright. Bright, for he knows what no man elseOn earth as yet may know:There’s a golden word that he never tells,And a gift that he will not show. He dreams of honor and wealth and fame,He smiles, and well he may;For to Vickery once a sick man cameWho did not go away. The day before the day to be,“Vickery,” said the guest,“You know as you live what’s left of me--And you shall know the rest. “You know as you live that I have comeTo what we call the end.No doubt you have found me troublesome,But you’ve also found a friend; “For we shall give and you shall takeThe gold that is in view;The mountain there and I shall makeA golden man of you. “And you shall leave a friend behindWho neither frets nor feels;And you shall move among your kindWith hundreds at your heels. “Now this that I have written hereTells all that need be told;So, Vickery, take the way that’s clear,And be a man of gold.” Vickery turned his eyes againTo the far mountain-side,And wept a tear for worthy menDefeated and defied. Since then a crafty score of yearsHave come, and they have gone;But Vickery counts no lost arrears:He lingers and lives on. Blue in the west the mountain stands,Familiar as a face.Blue, but Vickery knows what sandsAre golden at its base. He dreams and lives upon the dayWhen he shall walk with kings.Vickery smiles--and well he may:The life-caged linnet sings. Vickery thinks the time will comeTo go for what is his;But hovering, unseen hands at homeWill hold him where he is. There’s a golden word that he never tellsAnd a gift that he will not show.All to be given to some one else--And Vickery shall not know.
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