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Goodbye Columbia and crew


MtnGoat

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you died doing what you had a passion for, and there's no better epitaph than that.

 

A daring crew lost on the shores of space, yet bringing us a tiny bit closer to the eternal in doing so, you've earned a place in the never ending epic of history. Once again we each share the grief of inevitable human loss, as when sailors braved the wide ocean in wooden ships, and now when humans dare to defy the immutable laws of physics and probability applied on a cosmic scale, and the house wins.

 

Your loss touches us deeply, for some part of the yearning to see new things, experience new places, and travel beyond the beyond is carried in each human heart. What you strived to do and see brought a small piece of the wonders of the cosmos back for each of us, the brave work of you, those who preceded you, and those who shall follow.

 

Though the risk is often forgotten in an age when spaceflight is considered routine, your loss illustrates the boldness of the human drive to explore. In the face of tremendous, impersonal forces which must be held in check, while also held in delicate balance, for us to even take the tiniest steps off the surface of this world. Yet you risked it all to carry us farther along our destiny, to high orbit, and perhaps eventually to the stars.

 

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The Wanderlust has lured me to the seven lonely seas,

Has dumped me on the tailing-piles of dearth;

The Wanderlust has haled me from the morris chair of ease,

Has hurled me to the ends of all the earth.

How bitterly I've cursed it, oh, the Painted Desert knows,

The wraithlike heights that hug the pallid plain,

The all-but-fluid silence,--yet the longing grows and grows,

And I've got to glut the Wanderlust again.

 

Soldier, sailor in what a plight I've been!

Tinker, tailor, oh what sight I've seen!

And I'm hitting the trail in the morning, boys,

And you won't see my heels for dust;

For it's "all day" with you

When you answer the cue

Of the Wanderlust.

 

The Wanderlust has got me. . . by the belly-aching fire.

By the fever and the freezing and the pain;

By the darkness that just drowns you, by the wail of home desire,

I've tried to break the spell of it -- in vain.

Life might have been a feast for me, now there are only crumbs

In rags and tatters, beggar-wise I sit;

Yet there's no rest or peace for me, imperious it drums,

The Wanderlust, and I must follow it.

 

Highway, by-way, many a mile I've done;

Rareway, fair way, many a height I've won;

But I'm pulling my freight in the morning, boys,

And it's over the hills or bust;

For there's never a cure

When you list to the lure

Of the Wanderlust.

 

The Wanderlust has taught me . . . it has whispered to my heart

Things all you stay-at-homes will never know.

The white man and the savage are but three short days apart,

Three days of cursing, crawling, doubt and woe.

Then it's down to chewing muclucs, to the water you can eat,

To the fish you bolt with nose held in your hand.

When you get right down to cases, it's King's Grub that rules

the races,

And the Wanderlust will help you understand.

 

Haunting, taunting, that is the spell of it;

Mocking, baulking, that is the hell of it;

But I'll shoulder my pack in the morning, boys,

And I'm going because I must;

For it's so-long to all

When you answer the call

Of the Wanderlust.

 

The Wanderlust has blest me . . . in a ragged blanket curled,

I've watched the gulf of Heaven foam with stars;

I've walked with eyes wide open to the wonder of the world,

I've seen God's flood of glory burst its bars.

I've seen the gold a-blinding in the riffles of the sky,

Till I fancied me a bloated plutocrat;

But I'm freedom's happy bond-slave, and I will be till I die,

And I've got to thank the Wanderlust for that.

-Robert Service

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