Incense

Think not that incense-smoke has had its day.

My friends, the incense-time has but begun.

Creed upon creed, cult upon cult shall bloom,

Shrine after shrine grow gray beneath the sun.

And mountain-boulders in our aged West

Shall guard the graves of hermits truth-endowed:

And there the scholar from the Chinese hills

Shall do deep honor, with his wise head bowed.

And on our old, old plains some muddy stream,

Dark as the Ganges, shall, like that strange tide —

( Whispering mystery to half the earth ) —

Gather the praying millions to its side,

And flow past halls with statues in white stone

To saints unborn to-day, whose lives of grace

Shall make one shining, universal church

Where all Faiths kneel, as brothers, in one place.