Not for grave-stones fane and altar stand,
Tempting men to wait the resurrection
Of old prophets from their sunsets grand,—
Rather mile-stones towards the Promised Land,
Gird your mantles and bind on your sandals,
Each man marching by his own birth-star;
God will crown us when those glimmering candles
Swell to suns as forth we track them far,—
Suns that bear our throne and victory-bannered car!