UNKNOWN

A day whose wondrous dawn is writ In letters firm and free and bold, Through years whose prophecies shall fit This stone from Life's mosaic old!

A day wherein my hands shall rest From labor ill-requited here; The hands whose clasp on peace hath prest Too light to hold it very near.

That day whose number ofttimes now Rolls past each year, but all unseen By eyes now holden, shades the brow Where other shades have frequent been!

Some token in each joyous year That most I loved, abides unseen, And bears aloft an index clear Upon its leaves now clasped between.

The month, the day, the hour is there, Unconscious to my searching eye When, be the skies or dark or fair, Shall added be the Year I die!

And as I note each feast of song On earth; each joy, each loss or birth, Shall I not give — nor thus be wrong — A thought to that, when clogging earth

Shall hold me bond-slave here no more! No more shall dim with tears mine eyes; When I shall simply pass the door No living hand impatient tries!

Not mine to know that day as yet; But in the watches of the night, The watch my soul herself hath set, I wait the coming of that light.

Not then as messenger of dread I wait to read it on the scroll; Not as impatient, nor as wed To life, abides my waiting soul!

Though now inscribed “unknown” it takes Its place on calendar of earth, An anniversary that wakes To greet us from the hour of birth!