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By Will Allen Dromgoole

An old man traveling a lone highway,

Came at the evening cold and gray,

To a chasm vast and deep and wide,

Through which was flowing a sullen tide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim,

The sullen stream held no fears for him;

But he turned when safe on the other side,

And builded a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” cried a fellow pilgrim near,

“You’re wasting your time in building here.

Your journey will end with the closing day;

You never again will pass this way.

You have crossed the chasm deep and wide,

Why build you this bridge at even-tide?”

The Builder lifted his old head:

“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,

“There followeth after me today

A youth whose feet must pass this way.

This stream, which has been as naught to me,

To that fair-haired youth may pitfall be:

He, too, must cross in the twilight dim.

Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

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