 | [Poems by Piatt in] Poems of two friends |  |
38
PILGRIMS.
We may not be contented: 'tis our lifeTo drag slow footsteps after the far mind—
The long Endeavor toiling up behind
The bright-winged Aspiration—ceaseless strife
Clasping the cold hand Guerdon for warm heart
Of all desires. No man may feel the goal:
The want divine—the hunger of the soul
Moves like a star—the thirst will not depart,
Howe'er we drink. 'Tis that before us goes
Keeps us a-weary—will not leave us lay
Our heads in dream-land, though the enchanted palm
Rise from our desert—though the fountain grows
Up in our path, and slumber's flowery balm;
The soul is o'er the horizon—far away.
| [Poems by Piatt in] Poems of two friends | |