Often, in the slow ages’ long retreat

On Life’s thin ridge through Time’s enormous sea,

I have accepted death and borne defeat

To gain some vantage by my fall for Thee.

For Thou hast given the Inconscient the dark right

To oppose the shining passage of my soul

And levy at each step the tax of Night:

Doom, her august accountant, keeps the roll.

All around me now the Titan forces press;

This world is theirs, they hold its days in fee;

I am full of wounds and the fight merciless.

Is it not yet Thy hour of victory?

Even as Thou wilt! What still to Fate Thou owest,

O Ancient of the worlds, Thou knowest, Thou knowest.