These have been mine for five-and-twenty years, And more than these,--the work, the dreams I shared With you, and others here. My heart will break To leave them. But the appointed time has come As it must come to all men. You and I Have watched too many constant stars to dream That heaven or earth, the destinies of men Or nations, are the sport of chance. An end Comes to us all through blindness, age, or death. If mine must come in exile, it stall find me Bearing the torch as far as I can bear it, Until I fall at the feet of the young runner, Who takes it from me, and carries it out of sight, Into the great new age I shall not know, Into the great new realms I must not tread. Come, then, swift-footed, let me see you stand Waiting before me, crowned with youth and joy, At the next turning. Take it from my hand, For I am almost ready now to fall. Something I have achieved, yes, though I say it, I have not loitered on that fiery way. And if I front the judgment of the wise In centuries to come, with more of dread Than my destroyers, it is because this work Will be of use, remembered and appraised, When all their hate is dead. I say the work, Not the blind rumour, the glory or fame of it. These observations of seven hundred stars Are little enough in sight of those great hosts Which nightly wheel around us, though I hope, Yes, I still hope, in some more generous land To make my thousand up before I die. Little enough, I know,--a midget's work! The men that follow me, with more delicate art May add their tens of thousands; yet my sum Will save them just that five-and-twenty years Of patience, bring them sooner to their goal, That kingdom of the law I shall not see. We are on the verge of great discoveries. I feel them as a dreamer feels the dawn Before his eyes are opened. Many of you Will see them. In that day you will recall This, our last meeting at Uraniborg, And how I told you that this work of ours Would lead to victories for the coming age. The victors may forget us. What of that? Theirs be the palms, the shouting, and the praise. Ours be the fathers' glory in the sons. Ours the delight of giving, the deep joy Of labouring, on the cliff's face, all night long, Cutting them foot-holes in the solid rock, Whereby they climb so gaily to the heights, And gaze upon their new-discovered worlds. You will not find me there. When you descend, Look for me in the darkness at the foot Of those high cliffs, under the drifted leaves. That's where we hide at last, we pioneers, For we are very proud, and must be sought Before the world can find us, in our graves. There have been compensations. I have seen In darkness, more perhaps than eyes can see When sunlight blinds them on the mountain-tops; Guessed at a glory past our mortal range, And only mine because the night was mine.