The Hymn of the Men That Fail
Lo, here we face the Weigher with our balance; we, who out of all our toil have won
Only hope fore-spent and ideals vanished; only scars and sweat beneath the sun;
All we dared, and spent our hearts in daring, grasping as a hand that grasps a star,
Star-wise in its beauty and eluding lies beyond us still as dim and far.
And the soul that panoplied for battle once rode bravely forth in Fortune’s train;
Wise now by futile march and foray, knows the high adventure was in vain:
We have gained no laurels for our striving, naught of praise from them that sit to judge;
Yet while there is room for new endeavor life is all too full for fret or grudge.
We have failed—and bitter was the failing; full the price we paid of faith and trust;
Still our souls turn backward unavailing to the Gods thrown prostrate in the dust:
For we could not keep the sight of childhood; and the Grail our hearts set out to seek—
It was but a vessel, empty, earthen—yet we had the joy of them that seek.
All the winds of earth have blown us backward; all her tides have turned our course awry;
And though night be gemmed with starry splendor there is never lode star in our sky:
Straight against the winds of Fate we venture; in the teeth of every tide we steer;
High above the darkness that enfolds us burns our guiding hope forever clear.
We are them that fail; our hands are empty; hall and mart and temple know us not;
Power is not to us, nor place uplifted; wit is not of us to plan and plot;
But the wide and lonely places know us; hill and plain and wood and dark morrass;
And the light of homes and smoke of cities rise behind our footsteps as we pass.
We have broke the way our brother followed; we have set the harvest to his hand;
And the gold he heaps to fill his coffers we have winnowed out of barren sand:
Earth yields her good to only stern compellers; ours the knotted grip that bent her will;
Bound her to the serving of our kindred—and her captive-hate is on us still.
Homeless we have reared the homes of nations; mirthless we have laughed for others’ mirth;
Striven that another might have honor, as the stars appointed at our birth;
Ours the blood that reddened fields forgotten; ours the faith that sped a hope forlorn;
Ours the eyes that doomed to watch through darkness, see the first, far promises of morn.
We are them that fail—O ye that reckon—holding high our shortage to be weighed;
Grant ye that no other bore our burden; grant ye that the debt we made we paid:
We have failed; but beaten and defeated, still we face whatever Life may send;
Still we ask no odds of Fate or Fortune—we that go down fighting to the end.