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.