To every man there is open;
A way, ways, and a way.
The high soul ascends the high way,
The low soul descends the low way,
In the midst,
On the misty flats,
The rest just drifts to and fro.
But to every man there is open,
A high way, and a low,
And each man himself must decide,
The way his soul shall go.
I don't cry for precious moments passed away,
I don't weep for a "Golden Age" of social reign;
Each night I burn
The records of the day,
And at sunrise, my soul is born again.