THIS infant world has taken long to make! Nor hast Thou done the making of it yet, But wilt be working on when death has set A new mound in some church-yard for my sake. On flow the centuries without a break; Uprise the mountains, ages without let; The lichens suck the rock's breast -- food they get: Years more than past, the young earth yet will take. But in the dumbness of the rolling time, No veil of silence shall encompass me: Thou wilt not once forget and let me be; Rather wouldst Thou some old chaotic prime Invade, and, with a tenderness sublime, Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see. |