The Blind Caravan

The Blind Caravan

             I am a slave, both dumb and blind,

                  Upon a journey dread;

            The iron hills lie far behind,

                 The seas of mist ahead.

             Amid a mighty caravan

                 I toil a sombre track,

            The strangest road since time began,

                  Where no foot turneth back.

             Here rosy youth at morning's prime

               And weary man at noon

           Are crooked shapes at eventime

                 Beneath the haggard moon.

           Faint elfin songs from out the past

                Of some lost sunset land

           Haunt this grim pageant drifting, vast,

                Across the trackless sand.

           And often for some nightward wind

                 We stay a space and hark,

           Then leave the sunset lands behind,

                 And plunge into the dark.

           Somewhere, somewhere, far on in front,

               There strides a lonely man

           Who is all strength, who bears the brunt,

                The battle and the ban.

           I know not of his face or form,

               His voice or battle-scars,

          Or how he fronts the haunted storm

                Beneath the wintry stars;

           I know not of his wisdom great

                That leads this sightless host

           Beyond the barren hills of fate

                Unto some kindlier coast.

            But often 'mid the eerie black

                Through this sad caravan

           A strange, sweet thrill is whispered back,

               Borne on from man to man.

           A strange, glad joy that fills the night

                Like some far marriage horn,

           Till every heart is filled with light

                Of some belated morn.

          The way is long, and rough the road,

                And bitter the night, and dread,

           And each poor slave is but a goad

              To lash the one ahead.

           Evil the foes that lie in wait

                To slay us in the pass,

           Bloody the slaughter at the gate,

                And bleak the wild morass;

           And I am but a shriveled thing

                Beneath the midnight sky;

           A wasted, wan remembering

                 Of days long wandered by.

            And yet I lift my sightless face

                Toward the eerie light,

                    And tread the lonely way we trace

               Across the haunted night.
--William Wilfred Campbell