Myself did make my yesterdays,
And this I truly know,
To all my morrows I shall bring
Their store of joy or woe.
Each cup these lips of mine shall drink,
It shall be filled by me;
For every door that I would pass,
These hands must mould the key.
If e'er on yonder shining height,
A larger life I own,
Though throb my brain, though ache my feet,
Its slope I climb alone.
No more along a darkened way,
I, doubting, blindly grope:
No more I shame my soul with fear,
Nor yet with yearning hope.
But knowing this that I do know,
And seeing what I see,
I rest in this great certainty,-
All may be well with me.