Narrow and steep the pathway we must tread,
And even then the crown may be of thorn,
That all the years thereafter must be worn,
Till silence numbers us among the dead:
Hard must we toil to win this bitter bread,
And through the clear flush of the radiant morn,
Oft see the clouds, with edges tempest torn,
Rise in dense gloom, by disappointment led.
Yet is not all this strife a better gift,
Than aimless journeyings through sunlit days?
Does not each upward struggle serve to lift
The soul to where God's clearer radiance plays,
Till through some stern and rock-embattled rift,
We reach at last life's firm and level ways?