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With purpose staunch and dauntless His senses steeped in heavenly sights,

will,

Sped by a noble discontent

You climb toward the blue firmament:
Climb as the winds climb, mounting high
The viewless ladders of the sky;
Spurning our lower atmosphere,
Heavy with sighs and dense with night,
And urging upward, year by year,
To ampler air, diviner light.

"Farther horizons every year."
Beneath you pass the tribes of men ;
Your gracious boughs o'ershadow them.
You hear, but do not seem to heed,
Their jarring speech, their faulty creed.
Your roots are firmly set in soil
Won from their humming paths of toil;
Content their lives to watch and share,
To serve them, shelter, and upbear,
Yet but to win an upward way
And larger gift of heaven than they,
Benignant view and attitude,
Close knowledge of celestial sign;
Still working for all earthly good,
While pressing on to the Divine.

His soul attuned to heavenly keys,
How should he pause for rest or ease,
Or turn his winged feet again

To share the common feasts of men?
He blessed them with his word and
smile

But, still above their fickle moods,
Wooing, constraining him, the while
Beckoned the shining altitudes.

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'Farther horizons every year." To what immeasurable height, What clear irradiance of light, What far and all-transcendent goal, Hast thou now risen, O steadfast soul! We may not follow with our eyes To where the further pathway lies; Nor guess what vision, vast and free, God keeps in store for souls like thee. But still the sentry pines, which wave Their boughs above thy honored grave, Shall be thy emblems brave and fit, Firm rooted in the stalwart sod; Blessing the earth, while spurning it, Content with nothing short of God.

May 31, 1882

Publishers: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston

SUSAN COOLIDGE

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DESCRIPTIVE POEMS

We shall walk wo more through the sorten plas With the faser bents c'erspread.

We shall stand no have

by the seething main

which the dash wrach drives d'erhead;

We shall park no more in the bound & the rain
lobere they lath farewell was said

ван

But perhaps I shall mil thend know there afan аднастирки Jean hilllor

When the sea gres of her dead

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