That leads to human greatness and to pain.
Take in your hand once more the pilgrim’s staff—
Your delicate hand misshapen from the nights
In Kara’s mines; bind on your unbent back
That long has borne the burdens of the race,
The exile’s bundle, and upon your feet
Strap the worn sandals of a tireless faith.
You are too great for pity. After you
We send not sobs, but songs; and all our days
We shall walk bravelier knowing where you are.