Chapter I

The tide is at the ebb, as if to mark
Our turning backward from the guiding light;
Grotesque, uncertain shapes infest the dark
And wings of bats are heard in aimless flight;
Discordant voices cry and serpents hiss,
No friendly star, no beacon's beckoning ray;
We follow, all forsworn, with steps amiss,
Envy and Malice on an unknown way.
But he who bore the light in night of war,
Swiftly and surely and without surcease,
Where other light was not, save one red star,
Treads now, as then, the certain path to peace;
Wounded, denied, but radiant of soul,
Steadfast in honor, marches toward the goal.