Gone! yet with us still they stay, And their memories throb through life; The music that hushes or stirs to-day, Is toned by their calm or strife. Gone! and yet they never go! We kneel at the shrine of time: 'Tis a mystery no man may know, Nor tell in a poet's rhyme. "To-Days" Brief while they last, Long when they are gone; They catch from the past A light to still live on. Brief! yet I ween A day may be an age, The poet's pen may screen Heart-stories on one page. Brief! but in them, From eve back to morn, Some find the gem, Many find the thorn. Brief! minutes pass Soft as flakes of snow, Shadows o'er the grass Could not swifter go. Brief! but along All the after-years To-day will be a song Of smiles or of tears. "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. Inevitable What has been will be, 'Tis the under law of life; 'Tis the song of sky and sea, To the key of calm and strife. For guard we as we may, What is to be will be, The dark must fold each day -- The shore must gird each sea. All things are ruled by law; 'Tis only in man's will You meet a feeble flaw; But fate is weaving still