The Future
A
wanderer
is
man
from
his
birth.
He
was
born
in
a
ship
On
the
breast
of
the
river
of
Time;
Brimming
with
wonder
and
joy
He
spreads
out
his
arms
to
the
light,
Rivets
his
gaze
on
the
banks
of
the
stream.
As
what
he
sees
is,
so
have
his
thoughts
been.
Whether
he
wakes,
Where
the
snowy
mountainous
pass,
Echoing
the
screams
of
the
eagles,
Hems
in
its
gorges
the
bed
Of
the
new-born
clear-flowing
stream;
Whether
he
first
sees
light
Where
the
river
in
gleaming
rings
Sluggishly
winds
through
the
plain;
Whether
in
sound
of
the
swallowing
sea—
As
is
the
world
on
the
banks,
So
is
the
mind
of
the
man.
Vainly
does
each,
as
he
glides,
Fable
and
dream
Of
the
lands
which
the
river
of
Time
Had
left
ere
he
woke
on
its
breast,
Or
shall
reach
when
his
eyes
have
been
closed.
Only
the
tract
where
he
sails
He
wots
of;
only
the
thoughts,
Raised
by
the
objects
he
passes,
are
his.
Who
can
see
the
green
earth
any
more
As
she
was
by
the
sources
of
Time?
Who
imagines
her
fields
as
they
lay
In
the
sunshine,
unworn
by
the
plough?
Who
thinks
as
they
thought,
The
tribes
who
then
roam'd
on
her
breast,
Her
vigorous,
primitive
sons?
What
girl
Now
reads
in
her
bosom
as
clear
As
Rebekah
read,
when
she
sate
At
eve
by
the
palm-shaded
well?
Who
guards
in
her
breast
As
deep,
as
pellucid
a
spring
Of
feeling,
as
tranquil,
as
sure?
What
bard,
At
the
height
of
his
vision,
can
deem
Of
God,
of
the
world,
of
the
soul,
With
a
plainness
as
near,
As
flashing
as
Moses
felt
When
he
lay
in
the
night
by
his
flock
On
the
starlit
Arabian
waste?
Can
rise
and
obey
The
beck
of
the
Spirit
like
him?
This
tract
which
the
river
of
Time
Now
flows
through
with
us,
is
the
plain.
Gone
is
the
calm
of
its
earlier
shore.
Border'd
by
cities
and
hoarse
With
a
thousand
cries
is
its
stream.
And
we
on
its
breast,
our
minds
Are
confused
as
the
cries
which
we
hear,
Changing
and
shot
as
the
sights
which
we
see.
And
we
say
that
repose
has
fled
For
ever
the
course
of
the
river
of
Time.
That
cities
will
crowd
to
its
edge
In
a
blacker,
incessanter
line;
That
the
din
will
be
more
on
its
banks,
Denser
the
trade
on
its
stream,
Flatter
the
plain
where
it
flows,
Fiercer
the
sun
overhead.
That
never
will
those
on
its
breast
See
an
ennobling
sight,
Drink
of
the
feeling
of
quiet
again.
But
what
was
before
us
we
know
not,
And
we
know
not
what
shall
succeed.
Haply,
the
river
of
Time—
As
it
grows,
as
the
towns
on
its
marge
Fling
their
wavering
lights
On
a
wider,
statelier
stream—
May
acquire,
if
not
the
calm
Of
its
early
mountainous
shore,
Yet
a
solemn
peace
of
its
own.
And
the
width
of
the
waters,
the
hush
Of
the
grey
expanse
where
he
floats,
Freshening
its
current
and
spotted
with
foam
As
it
draws
to
the
Ocean,
may
strike
Peace
to
the
soul
of
the
man
on
its
breast—
As
the
pale
waste
widens
around
him,
As
the
banks
fade
dimmer
away,
As
the
stars
come
out,
and
the
night-wind
Brings
up
the
stream
Murmurs
and
scents
of
the
infinite
sea.
