Hearts that are great beat never loud,
They muffle their music when they come;
They hurry away from the thronging crowd
With bended brows and lips half dumb,
And the world looks on and mutters -- "Proud."
But when great hearts have passed away
Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud,
And in love they kneel around their clay.
Hearts that are great are always lone,
They never will manifest their best;
Their greatest greatness is unknown --
Earth knows a little -- God, the rest.
"Yesterdays"
Gone! and they return no more,
But they leave a light in the heart;
The murmur of waves that kiss a shore
Will never, I know, depart.
Gone! yet with us still they stay,
And their memories throb through life;
The music that hushes or stirs to-day,
Is toned by their calm or strife.
Gone! and yet they never go!
We kneel at the shrine of time:
'Tis a mystery no man may know,
Nor tell in a poet's rhyme.
"To-Days"
Brief while they last,
Long when they are gone;
They catch from the past
A light to still live on.
Brief! yet I ween
A day may be an age,
The poet's pen may screen
Heart-stories on one page.
Brief! but in them,
From eve back to morn,
Some find the gem,
Many find the thorn.
Brief! minutes pass
Soft as flakes of snow,
Shadows o'er the grass
Could not swifter go.
Brief! but along
All the after-years
To-day will be a song
Of smiles or of tears.
"To-Morrows"
God knows all things -- but we
In darkness walk our ways;
We wonder what will be,
We ask the nights and days.
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.
Ask him, and he will see
What your To-morrows are;
He'll sing "What is to be"
Beneath each sun and star.
To-morrows! Dread unknown!
What fates may they not bring?
What is the chord? the tone?
The key in which they sing?
I see a thousand throngs,
To-morrows for them wait;
I hear a thousand songs
Intoning each one's fate.
And yours? What will it be?
Hush! song, and let me pray!
God sees it all -- I see
A long, lone, winding way;
And more! no matter what!
Crosses and crowns you wear:
My song may be forgot,
But Thou shalt not, in prayer.