There shall no lost tall towers be,
No idle aim of art;
No useless joy of minstrelsy,
No ever-empty heart;
No utter silencing of song,
No comrade absent from the throng.
Through pain and trial of the tears,
Lead up the host, O Star!
Lead up, lead up, until the years
Have glorified the scar
That burns upon the brow of man,
Aldebaran, Aldebaran!
COMRADES
Come dear Comrade, let us sing—
Not to any tightened string
Struck by harpers when they play—
Let us, like the morning wind,
Shout with an unfettered mind
Anthems of the common day.
Challenge, as the waves the shore,
Whoso limits what we pour,
Protestant of any strain
Other than old minstrels know;
Follow where the spume flakes blow
Down the world and back again.
We will run the glad earth round,
Splinter with a lance of sound
Cliffs that front the swelling tide;
Till the mute soul is set free
Unto love and liberty,
Unafraid and satisfied.
We will let the fancy run,
Climb into the setting sun—
Leap from it upon the moon—
Laugh at all the broken bars
Down betwixt us and the stars,
Vainly builded by the noon.
Play, my Comrade, through the trees
Luting ancient litanies;
Laugh with every fronded fern;
Sit with daisies in the grass;
Let the river hold a glass
To your eyes, and look and learn.
Gaily go upon all roads,
Not like cattle pricked with goads;
For the towered town To-Morrow—
Walled with pearl and chrysolite—
Lies beyond the tarn of Night,
Past the broken bridge of Sorrow.