And stretch my hand to find that other hand.
I question of th' eternal bending skies
That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;
But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes
On me, as I one day shall do on them,
And tell me not the secret that I ask.
NOT THEY WHO SOAR
Not they who soar, but they who plod
Their rugged way, unhelped, to God
Are heroes; they who higher fare,