HALF-WAY

The world is not the dream of living gold We dreamed when we were young; Then, all the glory that the west could hold Burned, fold on fold, A molten veil across its portals flung Behind whose shade the years lay sleeping still, Like tales untold; But now, beyond the beeches bare and chill, Beyond the woods set far upon the hill, The clouds are cold. And life is not the journey that we planned As we set out with morn; We said, ‘We will rest here and view the land, Or take our stand Upon these hills and see the ripening corn, Or step aside along the mere to mark The wild-fowl band;’ But now, we know we must tread swift and stark, If we would cross the desert ere the dark Creeps on the sand. And death is not the dim and distant shade So far against the sky; The half-seen trap for others waiting laid, While we, arrayed In pride and plume of youth, go sweeping by. We thought to meet him with a spirit braced By conquests made; But now, we know, when half the road is traced, Our hope is but to reach him undisgraced And unafraid.