Out of the dark we come, nor know
Into what out­er dark we go.
Wings sweep across the stars at night,
Sweep and are lost in flight,
And down the star-strewn win­dy lanes the sky
Is emp­ty as be­fore the wings went by.
We dare not lift our eyes, lest we should see
The ut­ter quiet of eter­ni­ty;
So, in the end, we come to this:
Christ-Mary’s kiss.

We can­not brook the wide sun’s might,
We are alone and chilled by night;
We stand, atrem­ble and afraid,
Upon the small worlds we have made;
Fearful, lest all our poor con­trol
Should turn and tear us to the soul;
A dread, lest we should be de­nied
The price we hold our raged pride;
So in the end we cast them by
For a gaunt cross against the sky.

To those who quest­ion is the fine re­ward
Of the brave heart who fights with brok­en sword
In the dark night against an un­seen enemy;
There is not any hope of vic­to­ry.
While sweat is sweet and earth­ly ways and toil,
The touch of shoul­ders, scent of new-turned soil,
Striving it­self amid the thrust­ing throng,
And love that comes with white hands strong;
But on it­self the long path turns again,
To find at length the hill of pain.

Such on­ly do we know and see;
Starlight and ev­en­ing mys­te­ry,
Sunlight on peaks and dust-red plain,
Thunder and the quick breath of rain,
Stirring of fields and all the love­ly things
That sea­son af­ter sea­son brings;
Young dawn and qui­et night
And the earth’s might.
But all our wis­dom and our wis­dom’s plan
End in the lone­ly figure of a Man.

Maxwell Stru­thers Burt
In the High Hills, 1914