The Pilgrim

I met a stranger on the road,

        Footsore and dirty he;

He stopped to mop his moistened brow

        Beneath a kindly tree.

His face, though dusty from the way

        Showed heavy lines of care;

And streaks of gray were creeping in

        His mop of tousled hair.

“Good morrow, stranger,” I advanced,

        You’ve come a weary way?”

He nodded the affirmative,

        And murmured his “good day”.

“Indeed I’ve come a weary way,

        I’ve yet afar to go;

Just when I’ll reach my journey’s end

        Alas! I do not know.”

“I started long, long years ago,

        I rode in special trains;

And then I took a parlor car

        Down through life’s verdant lanes.

And then ‘twas but a common coach,

        And later ‘twas the freight.

Till by and by I bought a horse

        Of slow and tiresome gait.

“The old horse fell upon the road,

        And then I begged my way,

Till now no one will carry me,

        And I must walk today.

I fain would reach my treasured goal,

        Which lies beyond the sun.

And when I’ve reached the land of rest

        My battle will be won.

“Alas! ‘Tis but life’s journey through,

        ‘Tis but the race of man;

He’s been upon this pilgrimage

        Since ere the world began.

It would not do to wait the chase                         will

        I must be on my way.”

He bade me his good morrow then,

        And faded with the day.

Sept. 2, ‘10