The dew stands on the dormer panes,

The cross November sun

Has sent the daylight off to bed

Before the night's begun;

The dull red embers, half aglow,

Are sulking in the grate,

And let the lonely shadows grow

All dark and desolate;

Shadows of things that go awry,

Or waver to and fro;

Shadows of playthings bought so dear

And broken long ago;

Shadows of friends who played till mirth

Grew sad and went in pain:

Where is the merry light that makes

Old shadows smile again?

Hark! little sandals softly beat

Upon the attic stair,

And truant mischief breathless creeps

With whispered, "Is he there?"

A story? 'Tis a fateful task

To fill the open brow:

Who knows what plans of God depend

On all it garners now?

Where shall we lead the clambering limbs,

The big blue fearless eyes?

Down to the gold mine's narrowing drift,

Or to the widening skies

Where, in the space around the stars,

Are countless worlds astray,

Whose peoples call for pioneers

To find the safer way?

Ay, let us tell the generous tale

Of giants real and bold,

Who grew so great they would not stoop

To gather fame and gold;

But hurled the mountains from our path,

And drained our quagmires dry,

And held our foes at bay the while

They bore our weaklings by;

Giants by whose unselfish toil

Our land was first begun,

Where good and useful men and maids

Make merry as they run.

Ah, may you miss the dismal tracks

That aimless feet have trod,

And follow where our pioneers

Make open ways to God.

—Vautier Golding.