Ralph Adams Cram (1863–1942)

AS when, aweary, with the dying day

The traveler stands silent on the height

So hardly won, and wistful sees the night

Grow in the east along the path that lay

Dawn-lit long hours before, now fading gray,

Through wreathing, rising mists—lo! full in sight

Lie the broad fields, hills, forests, rivers white,

That vanished as he passed them on his way.

So, on Time’s wind-swept summit, when at last

The farthest height is reached and the great sea

Lies round the sun of life, the long dead past

Flames in the sunset fire of memory,

Forbid forever. And the night sweeps past

Across the ocean of Eternity.