Classic Poem

Toward heights I may not hope to climb
Hourly my thought may stir:
The dreamt-of summit grows sublime,
My valley lovelier.

The task that holds me at the base
Of the sweet mountain-slope,
Forbids not that I lift my face
To the cool winds of hope:

And wingless duty to the mind
Ungrudging doth permit
That he each day a summit find
On fresh-worn paths to it.