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Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass

The Lamp of Life

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.