To gaze adown the splendid sunlit ways
Where all the fires of fame burned glory red,
I recked not where the sounding arches led,
Save at the end I gain my august bays.
But as of old, when through the patient night,
Fair losing or fair gaining, till the morn,
Great Israel strove to break the angel's might,
Till spent and failing, in his heavenly scorn,
Th' immortal wrestler touched the earthly born,
Striking him powerless, winning thus the fight.