The Dream.
By Margaret Steele Anderson
They sing the race, the song is wildly sweet;
But thou, my harp, oh thou shalt sing the goal!
The distant goal, that draws the bleeding feet
And lights the brow and lifts the fainting soul!
(And yet, I know not!, Is the goal the place
I dream it is the while I run the race?)
They sing the fight, the list'ners come in bands;
But tune thy chords, my harp, to sing the prize,
That noble prize for which the fighter stands.
And bids his body strain and agonize!
(Yet, if I knew! O, is the prize so bright
As I have thought it, all this bitter fight?)
They sing the work; the song makes labor fair;
But thou, my harp, shalt sing the labor's aim.
The gleaming light, the beauty throned there
That calls the worker onward more than fame!
(But oh, I pray the aim be what I sought
And visioned ceaselessly the while I wrought!)
Yet, hear me not, Watcher of the race!
Forgive me, thou Giver of the prize!
It is enough, the hope before my face.
It is enough, the dream before mine eyes!
And this I dare: to think thou hast not wrought
Or dream or ardent dreamer all for nought!