A poem

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The Lamp of Life - by Amy Lowell (1874-1925)

Always we are following a light,

Always the light recedes; with groping hands

We stretch toward this glory, while the lands

We journey through are hidden from our sight

Dim and mysterious, folded deep in night,

We care not, all our utmost need demands

Is but the light, the light! So still it stands

Surely our own if we exert our might.

Fool! Never can'st thou grasp this fleeting gleam,

Its glowing flame would die if it were caught,

Its value is that it doth always seem

But just a little farther on. Distraught,

But lighted ever onward, we are brought

Upon our way unknowing, in a dream