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.