Eternal cold of silence, where each sound <br />Dies in its birth, and Death's pale henchmen meet <br />With soft Lethean traps unwary feet <br />Or ride with hell's white steed and slavering hound; <br />Which of us, searching selfward, has not found <br />This desolate realm, and long black seams, that greet <br />Our souls with recollections of defeat, <br />And torrid fossils in the frozen ground? <br />Not he, who comes among us as a king; <br />Strange were the secret waste and granite walls <br />To him whose reverent feet have travelled far <br />Where duty beckons and adventure calls. <br />He steers his course, by one red tropic star, <br />Where ripples the green robe of the lilting spring.<br /><br />John Le Gay Brereton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/david-8/
