Classic Poem

Always we are following a light,
— Always the light recedes; with groping hands
— We stretch toward this glory, while the lands
We journey through are hidden from our sight
Dim and mysterious, folded deep in night,
— We care not, all our utmost need demands
— Is but the light, the light! So still it stands
Surely our own if we exert our might.
Fool! Never can'st thou grasp this fleeting gleam,
— Its glowing flame would die if it were caught,
Its value is that it doth always seem
— But just a little farther on. Distraught,
— But lighted ever onward, we are brought
Upon our way unknowing, in a dream.