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Poem	IT'S forth across the roaring foam, and on towards the west, It's many a lonely league from home, o'er many a mountain crest, From where the dogs of Scotland call the sheep around the fold, To where the flags are flying beside the Gates of Gold. Where all the deep-sea galleons ride that come to bring the corn, Where falls the fog at eventide and blows the breeze at morn; It's there that I was sick and sad, alone and poor and cold, In yon distressful city beside the Gates of Gold. I slept as one that nothing knows; but far along my way, Before the morning God rose and planned the coming day; Afar before me forth he went, as through the sands of old, And chose the friends to help me beside the Gates of Gold. I have been near, I have been far, my back's been at the wall, Yet aye and ever shone the star to guide me through it all: The love of God, the help of man, they both shall make me bold Against the gates of darkness as beside the Gates of Gold.
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