A sun-flash on his mounting wing, A wild note soaring high—The lark is up, the minstrel king, The poet of the sky.
To thrill, to sing of Youth and Spring Those golden numbers flowed. What message then Has he for men Who tread the long grey road?
Knee-deep in grass the cattle stand, The river winds along,
And chants through sunny meadow land A low mysterious song.
Ah! sunlit vale and lover’s tale Youth’s day is quickly gone— Past current-beat And meadow-sweet The grey road stretches on!
Grim bastions frowning down below— And rising, tier on tier,
Sublime, and crowned with ageless snow The awful peaks appear.
The heights belong unto the strong Who scale, by crags untried, The great cliffs face— But at its base The grey road turns aside!
No hope in Heaven, no minstrel strain, No vales where summer shoneA leaden sky, a silent plain, The grey road stretching on.
O Christ, who trod the thorny path, And bore the bitter load, Have mercy then On weary men Who tread the long grey road!
