A thousand million souls arise 
 Out of the cradle of to-day, 
And, like a living storm, beneath the skies 
 Go thundering on their fatal way! 
 But ere to-morrow?s sun 
His ancient round hath run, 
That storm is past?and Where are they? 
Is asked of Faith by pale Dismay: 
 ?Where?where are they?? 
And Faith?even Faith herself?hath not a word to say. 
 With her serene assurance thrown 
 Like moonlight into the Unknown 
 And all her clasping tendrils curled 
About the steadfast pillars of the never-failing world, 
 To that wild question of Dismay 
 Yet hath she not a word to say, 
 And only lifts her patient eyes 
 Up from the earth?s change-trampled sod, 
 To fix them, out in the eternal skies, 
 On all she knoweth?God.