To-Day



OH God, where hast thou hidden Truth? Oh Truth,
Where is the road to God?
Lo, we, that should be old, have learned our youth;
We are not manly ripe; we have not dower
Of all the wisdom that a world can gain
In the centuries of work, peace, war, hope, pain;
We are not strong with all the gathered power
From age to age left our inheritance;
We stand not near the goal, there by the advance
Of step on step, through mire and blood and tears,
Forgotten fathers trod;
We are new in a new world; where shall we know,
Where in the ancient years,
Sign-marks to guide us on the way we go?

We are new in a new world. As children learn
Life by surprise and doubt,
So life must learn itself at each return
Of the upsoaring Phoenix birth from sleep
Among the ashes of an ended Past.
In its own strength, and singly from the last,
Each age's long To-day begins to creep
In baby paces whitherward it goes.
And from too far with too unsure a close,
Like void sonorous echoes in the hill,
Yesterday's voice rings out,
So gives the questioning turmoil of our cries
Answer such as we will.
Has Past writ Present in its histories?

Our fathers saw, we see not with their eyes,
Knew, and we learned in vain:
We seek old wisdoms in a novel wise;
We toil beginners of the things that are;
Like lessons which we early get by rote,
Heedless of meaning in the words we quote,
And by and by, the schoolroom left afar,
Discern at last their sense or find a new,
The just, the unjust, the counterfeit, the true,
We said from books upon our fathers' shelves,
All must be learned again:
We, children-like, still wondering as we grow,
Change, and become ourselves,
And only as ourselves can henceforth know.

How shall we know? what must we do? what be?
Answer us, Life, instead:
Past speaks us a dead tongue, we look to thee
And know thee teacher—yet a tardy one;
For now we labour, fearing to what end;
We journey, dimly seeing where we tend;
We do, and question was it rightly done;
Doubt and distrust of self beside us stand;
And who will find us Truth? where is her hand
To guide us on or back by the round path,
Leading but whence it led,
She travels on from God to reach him by?
What is the name she hath
To find her by to-day? Life, make reply.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

2:09 min read
71

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABAXCCXXXXBDXD EFEGHHGXXIFJIX JCJKLLKMMNXDND OPOQRRQSSTPUTU
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 2,176
Words 430
Stanzas 4
Stanza Lengths 14, 14, 14, 14

Augusta Davies Webster

Augusta Webster born in Poole, Dorset as Julia Augusta Davies, was an English poet, dramatist, essayist, and translator. The daughter of Vice-admiral George Davies and Julia Hume, she spent her younger years on board the ship he was stationed, the Griper. She studied Greek at home, taking a particular interest in Greek drama, and went on to study at the Cambridge School of Art. She published her first volume of poetry in 1860 under the pen name Cecil Homes. In 1863, she married Thomas Webster, a fellow at Trinity College, Cambridge. They had a daughter, Augusta Georgiana, who married Reverend George Theobald Bourke, a younger son of the Joseph Bourke, 3rd Earl of Mayo. Much of Webster's writing explored the condition of women, and she was a strong advocate of women's right to vote, working for the London branch of the National Committee for Women's Suffrage. She was the first female writer to hold elective office, having been elected to the London School Board in 1879 and 1885. In 1885 she travelled to Italy in an attempt to improve her failing health. She died on 5 September 1894, aged 57. During her lifetime her writing was acclaimed and she was considered by some the successor to Elizabeth Barrett Browning. After her death, however, her reputation quickly declined. Since the mid-1990s she has gained increasing critical attention from scholars such as Isobel Armstrong, Angela Leighton, and Christine Sutphin. Her best-known poems include three long dramatic monologues spoken by women: A Castaway, Circe, and The Happiest Girl In The World, as well as a posthumously published sonnet-sequence, "Mother and Daughter". more…

All Augusta Davies Webster poems | Augusta Davies Webster Books

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