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.