He Who bids the wild-swans’ host still maintain their flight on
Air-roads over islands lost—
Ages since ’neath Ocean lost—
Beaches of some sunken coast their fathers would alight on—
Faiths.
He shall guide us through this dark, not by new-blown glories,
But by every ancient mark our fathers used before us,
Till our children ground their ark where the proper shore is.
Services, Patiences, Faiths, Hopes, and Loves.
He Who used the clay that clings on our boots to make us,