Amy Lowell: The Lamp of Life

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.