Say not the struggle naught availeth, | |
The labour and the wounds are vain, | |
The enemy faints not, nor faileth, | |
And as things have been they remain. | |
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; | |
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, | |
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, | |
And, but for you, possess the field. | |
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, | |
Seem here no painful inch to gain, | |
Far back, through creeks and inlets making, | |
Comes silent, flooding in, the main. | |
And not by eastern windows only, | |
When daylight comes, comes in the light; | |
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! | |
But westward, look, the land is bright! |
"Say Not The Struggle Naught Availeth", Arthur Hugh Clough