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.

To-morrows! Dread unknown!
What fates may they not bring?
What is the chord? the tone?
The key in which they sing?

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.