“To-Morrows”

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.