We should not sit us down and sigh, <br />My girl, whose brow a fane appears, <br />Whose steadfast eyes look royally <br />Backwards and forwards o'er the years-- <br /> <br />The long, long years of conquered time, <br />The possible years unwon, that slope <br />Before us in the pale sublime <br />Of lives that have more faith than hope. <br /> <br />We dare not sit us down and dream <br />Fond dreams, as idle children do: <br />My forehead owns too many a seam, <br />And tears have worn their channels through <br /> <br />Your poor thin cheeks, which now I take <br />Twixt my two hands, caressing. Dear, <br />A little sunshine for my sake! <br />Although we're far on in the year. <br /> <br />Though all our violets, sweet! are dead, <br />The primrose lost from fields we knew, <br />Who knows that harvests may be spread <br />For reapers brave like me and you? <br /> <br />Who knows what bright October suns <br />May light up distant valleys mild, <br />Where as our pathway downward runs <br />We see Joy meet us, like a child <br /> <br />Who, sudden, by the roadside stands, <br />To kiss the travellers' weary brows, <br />And lead them through the twilight lands <br />Safely unto their Father's house. <br /> <br />So, we'll not dream, nor look back, dear! <br />But march right on, content and bold, <br />To where our life sets, heavenly clear, <br />Westward, behind the hills of gold.<br /><br />Dinah Maria Mulock Craik<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/westward-ho-3/
