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(To hear us
talk)
The tree the tempest with a crash of wood
Throws down in front of us is not bar
Our passage to
our journey's end for good,
But just to ask us who we
think we are
Insisting always on our own way so.
She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,
And make
us get down in a foot of snow
Debating what to do
without an ax.
And yet she knows obstruction is
in vain:
We will not be put off the final goal
We
have it hidden in us to attain,
Not though we have to
seize earth by the pole
And, tired of aimless
circling in one place,
Steer straight off after
something into space.
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