[Written for the Sentinel.]

PILGRIM, PRESS ON

PILGRIM, press on: the path seems dark, And stones of mortal sense have cut our feet, But gentle breezes waft a perfume sweet, And, lo, I hear the singing of a lark!

Piligrim, press on: I see the light; The purple shadows are foretelling dawn, And soon will come that fair and glorious morn, When past forever is the hideous night.

September 25, 1909
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