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Song!

A thousand million souls arise
  Out of the cradle of to-day,
And, like a living storm, beneath the skies
  Go thundering on their fatal way!
      But ere to-morrow’s sun
His ancient round hath run,
That storm is past—and Where are they?
Is asked of Faith by pale Dismay:
      “Where—where are they?”
And Faith—even Faith herself—hath not a word to say.
  With her serene assurance thrown
  Like moonlight into the Unknown
  And all her clasping tendrils curled
About the steadfast pillars of the never-failing world,
  To that wild question of Dismay
  Yet hath she not a word to say,
  And only lifts her patient eyes
  Up from the earth’s change-trampled sod,
  To fix them, out in the eternal skies,
  On all she knoweth—God.
Other works by Charles Harpur...



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