It is not given me to trace

Like a great word once known and lost And meaning all things.

And then a light winked like an eye. . . . And very many miles away

The iron ice stung like a goad, Slashing the torn shoes from my feet, And all the air was bitter sleet. And all the land was cramped with snow, Steel-strong and fierce and glimmering wan, Like pale plains of obsidian. — And yet I strove — …

The fight was done. Even gods tire Of fighting...

Life was a storm to wander through. I took the wrong way. Good and well, At least my feet sought out not Hell!

These I see, Blazing through all eternity, A fire-winged sign, a glorious tree!