PILGRIM, PRESS ON

EDMUND K. GOLDSBOROUGH, JR.

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.

Pilgrim, press on: the path grows clear;
I hear the voices of the angels singing,
And joyful bells of harmony are ringing,
Dispelling every thought of grief and fear.

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