Slow Moves The Pageant Of A Climbing Race; Their Footsteps Drag Far, Far Below The Height, And, Unprevailing By Their Utmost Might, Seem Faltering Downward From Each Hard Won Place. No Strange, Swift-Sprung Exception We; We Trace A Devious Way Thro' Dim, Uncertain Light,-- Our Hope, Through The Long Vistaed Years, A Sight Of That Our Captain'S Soul Sees Face To Face. Who, Faithless, Faltering That The Road Is Steep, Now Raiseth Up His Drear Insistent Cry? Who Stoppeth Here To Spend A While In Sleep Or Curseth That The Storm Obscures The Sky? Heed Not The Darkness Round You, Dull And Deep; The Clouds Grow Thickest When The SummIt's Nigh.