Still the white stars burn overhead, <br />The green earth swings upon her way: <br />Where are the voices of the dead, <br />The hearts of Yesterday? <br />Drawn by what strange, mysterious power, <br />From what dream world and magic sky <br />Came they to laugh on earth an hour, <br />To weep, to toil, to die? <br /> <br />And whither gone? On what wild flight <br />By planet pale and sceptred star? <br />What realms of sorrow or delight <br />Now wander they afar? <br /> <br />Pale Wayfarers, whose noiseless tread <br />Is near me as I seem to see <br />The mighty generations dead, <br />And all that yet shall be! <br /> <br />Are Past and Future, then, a breath <br />That one vast Present makes its own? <br />The Angel, Birth, the Shadow, Death, <br />Each guards a world unknown. <br /> <br />Wayfarers all, we know not whence <br />We came, nor whitherwards we go. <br />Deep in our hearts a haunting sense <br />That somewhere we shall know. <br /> <br />Still the white stars burn overhead, <br />The green earth swings upon her way: <br />Where are the voices of the dead, <br />The hearts of yesterday?<br /><br />George Essex Evans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wayfarers-2/
