A curious vision on mine eyes enfurled
    In the deep night. I saw, or seemed to see,
    Two Centuries meet, and sit down vis-à-vis
Across the great round-table of the world.
One with suggested sorrows in his mien,
    And on his brow the furrowed lines of thought,
    And one whose glad expectant presence brought
A glow and radiance from the realms unseen.

Hand clasped with hand, in silence for a space,
    The Centuries sat; the sad old eyes of one
    (As grave paternal eyes regard a son)
Gazing upon that other eager face.
And then a voice, as cadenceless and gray
    As the sea's monody in winter-time,
    Mingled with tones melodious as the chime
Of bird choirs singing in the dawns of May.


By you Hope stands. With me Experience walks,
Like a fair jewel in a faded box.
In my tear-rusted heart sweet pity lies
For all the dreams that look forth from your eyes,
And those bright-hued ambitions, which I know
Must fall like leaves and perish in Time's snow
(Even as my soul's garden stands bereft)
I give you pity! 'tis the one gift left.


Nay, nay, good friend! not pity, but Godspeed.
Here in the morning of my life I need
Counsel, and not condolence; smiles, not tears,
To guide me through the channels of the years.
Oh! I am blinded by the blaze of light
That shines upon me from the Infinite.
Blurred is my vision by the close approach
To unseen shores whereon the times encroach.


Illusion, all illusion. List and hear
The godless cannons booming far and near,
Flaunting the flag of Unbelief, with Greed
For pilot, lo! the pirate age in speed
Bears on to ruin. War's most hideous crimes
Besmirch the record of these modern times.
Degenerate is the world I leave to you---
My happiest speech to earth will be---adieu.


You speak as one too weary to be just.
I hear the guns---I see the greed and lust.
The death throes of a giant evil fill
The air with riot and confusion. Ill
Ofttimes makes fallow ground for Good, and Wrong
Builds Right's foundation when it grows too strong.
Pregnant with promise is the hour, and grand
The trust you leave in my all-willing hand.


As one who throws a flickering taper's ray
To light departing feet, my shadowed way
You brighten with your faith. Faith makes the man.
Alas! that my poor foolish age outran
Its early trust in God. The death of art
And progress follows when the world's hard heart
Casts out religion. 'Tis the human brain
Men worship now, and heaven, to them, means---gain.


Faith is not dead, though priest and creed may pass.
For thought has leavened the whole unthinking mass,
And man looks now to find the God within.
We shall talk more of love, and less of sin,
In this new era. We are drawing near
Unatlassed boundaries of a larger sphere.
With awe I wait till Science leads us on
Into the full effulgence of its dawn.

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.

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