God knows all things — but we In darkness walk our ways; We wonder what will be, We ask the nights and days.
Their lips are sealed; at times The bards, like prophets, see, And rays rush o'er their rhymes From suns of “days to be”.
They see To-morrow's heart, They read To-morrow's face, They grasp — is it by art — The far To-morrow's trace?
They see what is unseen, And hear what is unheard, And To-morrow's shade or sheen Rests on the poet's word.
As seers see a star Beyond the brow of night, So poets scan the far Prophetic when they write.
They read a human face, As readers read their page, The while their thought will trace A life from youth to age.
They have a mournful gift, Their verses oft are tears; And sleepless eyes they lift To look adown the years.
To-morrows are to-days! Is it not more than art? When all life's winding ways Meet in the poet's heart?
The present meets the past, The future, too, is there; The first enclasps the last And never folds fore'er.
It is not all a dream; A poet's thought is truth; The things that are — and seem From age far back to youth —
He holds the tangled threads, His hands unravel them; He knows the hearts and heads For thorns, or diadem.
Ask him, and he will see What your To-morrows are; He'll sing “What is to be” Beneath each sun and star.
I see a thousand throngs, To-morrows for them wait; I hear a thousand songs Intoning each one's fate.
And yours? What will it be? Hush! song, and let me pray! God sees it all — I see A long, lone, winding way;
And more! no matter what! Crosses and crowns you wear: My song may be forgot, But Thou shalt not, in prayer.
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