Page:Poems of Patriotism (1942).djvu/60

 He is dead who sees nothing to change,
 * No wrong to make right;

Who travels no new way or strange
 * In search of the light;

Who never sets out for a goal
 * That he sees from afar

But contents his indifferent soul
 * With things as they are.

Life isn’t rest—it is toil;
 * It is building a dream;

It is tilling a parcel of soil
 * Or bridging a stream;

It’s pursuing the light of a star
 * That but dimly we see,

And in wresting from things as they are
 * The joy that should be.