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.