Charles Harpur

        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.

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