Slow moves the pageant of a climbing race;
  Their footsteps drag far, far below the height,
  And, unprevailing by their utmost might,
Seem faltering downward from each hard won place.
No strange, swift-sprung exception we; we trace
  A devious way thro' dim, uncertain light,—
  Our hope, through the long vistaed years, a sight
Of that our Captain's soul sees face to face.
  Who, faithless, faltering that the road is steep,
Now raiseth up his drear insistent cry?
  Who stoppeth here to spend a while in sleep
Or curseth that the storm obscures the sky?
  Heed not the darkness round you, dull and deep;
The clouds grow thickest when the summit's nigh.