In the old blind alley we call our goal,
Hope: all that comes of a soul's life-labour."
"It was the labour that made the soul."
"We stride ahead, but in every village
A brother faints and a weakness falls.
The tribes that till and the tribes that pillage
Are reconciled with the life that palls.
Oh, townsmen tread to a fixed thanksgiving,
But what of us, if these pitying throngs
Should ask the end of our harder living?"