The title poem from Steady, Pilgrim

Steady, pilgrim,
walk with grace.
The saint was wrong,
there is no race.
You make a road
for those behind
who know not
that your work is blind.

Each year a mile
from wilderness,
the path made straight,
the toil made less.

Each day a slab 
to smooth the track
for foot, for hoof,
for weary back.

Each hour a tree
to shade the head,
give fruit to quench,
make wine, be fed.

Each thought a sky,
unbounded space.
So, steady, pilgrim,
walk with grace
remembering
your unborn face.

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