no trumpets echo in the deepest night
each is alone and must make their own way
towards the portals that let in new day
lacking the hearty pleasures of insight
and most uncertain still the bastard fright
will not much longer have unfettered sway
within this realm nor will the foolish bray
insisting on what cannot long be right
what we find true belongs to honest chance
the golden bloom that in the dawn we pluck
with loving thoughts arisen in each heart
ready the while to furnish our advance
with certainty that goes beyond plain luck
and all the wisdom that is from our art
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