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.