They trudge on through the graveyard, through the endless rain and howling wind,
Umbrellas bent against it, but no lasting pathway can they find
With their umbrellas bowed so low.
Six men amid the graveyard, reading name and date and date and name,
Who founder in the wallow, and no confidence can they proclaim
With their umbrellas bowed so low.
A well-built and distinguished man,
White streaks stark amid the black,
Walks on with fire behind his eyes,
Knows there is no going back.
And when he falters in despair
Of ever picking out the way,
A young man younger than his years
Then offers out a hand to say:
"We won't be lost for too much more.
The going has been slow, I know,
But look who's standing at the fore."
The sixth man
Who does not carry an umbrella.
"That force of will, that sight, that drive-
He truly is his father's son,
And if we slip, won't he still strive?"
The older man looks warmly on,
His fire renewed in hopeful glow-
For his umbrella's bowed too low.
The sixth man
Does not carry an umbrella.
The sixth man
Has no need of an umbrella.
He stands to take whatever lash the wind may bring,
Unbowed.
He raises his head to each flash of lightning above,
Unmoved.
His face takes each burst of the torrent,
Exultant.
Every song of his heart, every fiber of his being, proclaims:
Let it rain.
Then onward through the graveyard, faithful friends, and keep the solemn vow-
No more to find your feet again, your blinders your sole shelter now,
Till you, and all the world, bow low.