The Last Ridge
The end approaches. Like a traveller pale
With strong protracted labour, I rejoice:
Soon may I hush my strained and weary voice
And fold my rest about me, like a veil.
Soon “It is finished” may I utter, standing
Nigh the last weary peak I have to assail:
Soon may I, tender Beatrice commanding,
Strip off my blood-bedewed war-beaten mail.
Close to the end of battle now I stand,
Holding my conquest almost in mine hand,—
With Beatrice almost before my eyes;—
My spirit clears itself triumphantly
And climbs to the last ridge, whence now I see
Death's sunset, which to me is life's sunrise.
With strong protracted labour, I rejoice:
Soon may I hush my strained and weary voice
And fold my rest about me, like a veil.
Soon “It is finished” may I utter, standing
Nigh the last weary peak I have to assail:
Soon may I, tender Beatrice commanding,
Strip off my blood-bedewed war-beaten mail.
Close to the end of battle now I stand,
Holding my conquest almost in mine hand,—
With Beatrice almost before my eyes;—
My spirit clears itself triumphantly
And climbs to the last ridge, whence now I see
Death's sunset, which to me is life's sunrise.
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