Lloyd Mifflin (1846–1921)

SPIRIT of mine that soon must venturous spread

Through voids unknown thy feeble, fluttering plumes,

Hast thou no fear to wing those endless glooms?

No apprehension nor misgivings dread?

Those realms unfathomed of the speechless dead,

Which never gleam of eldest star illumes—

Lethean canyons that the Soul entombs—

Art thou not awed such sombre vasts to tread?

My Soul replied: ‘Wisdom hath made all things—

Life and the end of life, He gives to thee.

Down Death’s worn path the mightiest still have trod.

Where laurelled poets and anointed Kings

Have gone for ages, it is good to be—

Rest thou contented with the will of God.’