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 Tomorrow'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.