In all the ebony a piercing white,
The ivories so wrapping selves in dread,
But it is no dread.

These the blackboards of his genius,
These the dusk to truest dawn,
These the sea to wand'ring stars.

We hold a budding hope on winter morns,
That blackness has no sway on fullest light,
That goodness will not fall though evil fades,

That we will have it:
This eternity within our hearts.

Pushing then till strength is spent,
Trembling, the arms find trembles more,
Final strength is found like flecks of gold,
Amidst the sand through which I wade,
Against myself, ever scorning gravity,
That pins me down, fastens all my seams,
Making muscles stew to fuller force.

My eyes are tired,
Why do they seem to chastise me,
I barely even refuse sleep,
But simply tally at the thoughts of bed,
For waking is much better, see?
But my eyes... they really do chastise,
For I often seem to stretch the day,
When rather I should tuck it up,
The light behind my tired eyes.