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I SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round; | |
| So slowly that no human eye hath power | |
| To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower | |
| The painted ship above it, homeward bound, | |
| Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground; | 5 |
| Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower | |
| The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, | |
| A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. | |
| Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! | |
| The frontier town and citadel of night! | 10 |
| The watershed of Time, from which the streams | |
| Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, | |
| One to the land of promise and of light, | |
| One to the land of darkness and of dreams! | |
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II O River of Yesterday, with current swift | 15 |
| Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sight, | |
| I do not care to follow in their flight | |
| The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift! | |
| O River of To-morrow, I uplift | |
| Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night | 20 |
| Wanes into morning, and the dawning light | |
| Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift! | |
| I follow, follow, where thy waters run | |
| Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, | |
| Fragrant with flowers and musical with song; | 25 |
| Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun, | |
| And confident, that what the future yields | |
| Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. | |
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III Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, | |
| Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending, | 30 |
| I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending | |
| Thy voice with other voices far away. | |
| I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay, | |
| But turbulent, and with thyself contending, | |
| And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending, | 35 |
| Thou wouldst not listen to a poet’s lay. | |
| Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings, | |
| Regrets and recollections of things past, | |
| With hints and prophecies of things to be, | |
| And inspirations, which, could they be things, | 40 |
| And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, | |
| Were our good angels,—these I owe to thee. | |
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IV And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing | |
| Between thy narrow adamantine walls, | |
| But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, | 45 |
| And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing; | |
| I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, | |
| I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, | |
| And see, as Ossian saw in Morven’s halls, | |
| Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! | 50 |
| It is the mystery of the unknown | |
| That fascinates us; we are children still, | |
| Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling | |
| To the familiar things we call our own, | |
| And with the other, resolute of will, | 55 |
| Grope in the dark for what the day will bring. | |
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