Whose it shall be; unless it shall endow
  Thousands of thousands it can fall to none,
But faith and hope are not so simple now,
  As in the year of our redemption—­One. 
The pencil of pure light must disallow
  Its name and scattering, many hues put on,
And faith and hope low in the valley feel,
There it is well with them, ’tis very well.

The land is full of vision, voices call. 
  Can spirits cast a shadow?  Ay, I trow
Past is not done, and over is not all,
  Opinion dies to live and wanes to grow,
The gossamer of thought doth filmlike fall,
  On fallows after dawn make shimmering show,
And with old arrow-heads, her earliest prize,
Mix learning’s latest guess and last surmise.

There heard I pipes of fame, saw wrens ’about
  That time when kings go forth to battle’ dart,
Full valorous atoms pierced with song, and stout
  To dare, and down yclad; I shared the smart
Of grieved cushats, bloom of love, devout
  Beyond man’s thought of it.  Old song my heart
Rejoiced, but O mine own forelders’ ways
To look on, and their fashions of past days.

The ponderous craft of arms I craved to see,
  Knights, burghers, filtering through those gates ajar,
Their age of serfdom with my spirit free;
  We cannot all have wisdom; some there are
Believe a star doth rule their destiny,
  And yet they think to overreach the star,
For thought can weld together things apart,
And contraries find meeting in the heart.

In the deep dust at Suez without sound
  I saw the Arab children walk at eve,
Their dark untroubled eyes upon the ground,
  A part of Time’s grave quiet.  I receive
Since then a sense, as nature might have found
  Love kin to man’s that with the past doth grieve;
And lets on waste and dust of ages fall
Her tender silences that mean it all.

We have it of her, with her; it were ill
  For men, if thought were widowed of the world,
Or the world beggared of her sons, for still
  A crowned sphere with many gems impearled
She rolls because of them.  We lend her will
  And she yields love.  The past shall not be hurled
In the abhorred limbo while the twain,
Mother and son, hold partnership and reign.

She hangs out omens, and doth burdens dree. 
  Is she in league with heaven?  That knows but One. 
For man is not, and yet his work we see
  Full of unconscious omen darkly done. 
I saw the ring-stone wrought at Avebury
  To frame the face of the midwinter sun,
Good luck that hour they thought from him forth smiled
At midwinter the Sun did rise—­the Child.

Still would the world divine though man forbore,
  And what is beauty but an omen?—­what
But life’s deep divination cast before,
  Omen of coming love?  Hard were man’s lot,
With love and toil together at his door,
  But all-convincing eyes hath beauty got;
His love is beautiful, and he shall sue. 
Toil for her sake is sweet, the omen true.