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.