Explore "The Torch-Race" by Helen Gray Cone on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
SONNETS
Brave racer, who hast sped the living light / With throat outstretched and every nerve astrain, / Now on thy left hand labours gray-faced Pain, / And Death hangs close behind thee on the right. / Soon flag the flying feet, soon fails the sight, / With every pulse the gaunt pursuers gain; / And all thy splendour of strong life must wane / And set into the mystery of night.
Yet fear not, though in falling, blindness hide / Whose hand shall snatch, before it sears the sod, / The light thy lessening grasp no more controls: / Truth's rescuer, Truth shall instantly provide: / This is the torch-race game, that noblest souls / Play on through time beneath the eyes of God.