A thousand million souls arise <br /> Out of the cradle of to-day, <br />And, like a living storm, beneath the skies <br /> Go thundering on their fatal way! <br /> But ere to-morrow’s sun <br />His ancient round hath run, <br />That storm is past—and Where are they? <br />Is asked of Faith by pale Dismay: <br /> “Where—where are they?” <br />And Faith—even Faith herself—hath not a word to say. <br /> With her serene assurance thrown <br /> Like moonlight into the Unknown <br /> And all her clasping tendrils curled <br />About the steadfast pillars of the never-failing world, <br /> To that wild question of Dismay <br /> Yet hath she not a word to say, <br /> And only lifts her patient eyes <br /> Up from the earth’s change-trampled sod, <br /> To fix them, out in the eternal skies, <br /> On all she knoweth—God.<br /><br />Charles Harpur<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-64/
