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THE LAND OF PROMISE
ALTHOUGH the faiths to which we fearful clung
Fall from us, or no more have might to save;
Although the past, recalling gifts it gave,
O'er lost delights a doleful knell have rung;
Although the present, forth from ashes sprung,
Postpone from day to day what most we crave,
And, promising, beguile us to the grave,—
Yet, toward the Future, we are always young!
It smiles upon us in last lingering hours,
If with less radiance, with a light as fair,
As tender, pure, as in our childish years:
It is the fairy realm of fadeless flowers;
Of songs and ever-springing fountains, where
No heart-aches come, no vain regrets, no tears!
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