Faith is the wingèd genius whose far flight
Sweeps the perfected curves begun by sight.
On the firm rock of knowledge first she plants
Her radiant feet, and shoots her eagle glance
Backward along the purpling peaks that mark
Our primal truths’ emergence from the dark,
And upward, onward, to the beacon fires
Of the unsetting stars that from of old
Bannered the marches of the world’s gray sires;
And while the timid shrink, and thrill the bold,
She spreads her broad wings flashing heavenly dyes,
And takes her fearless flight to undiscovered skies!
Had we not known, by the long-tried
Sincerity of Nature, that new spring
Would come again to bring
The resurrection of the year that died,
What hope had cheered us when in burning frost
All the fair gifts of summer suns were lost?
But sleeping violets scent the icy air
With their dream-odors, and the souls of men,
By inspiration of that effluence rare,
Leap winter’s gulf to see them bloom again!
Then, having learned to trust the frozen sod
That hides our symbol Lily, shall the tomb
Veil from our faith the more ethereal bloom
Of loves that open in the smile of God?
The humblest herdsman folds his little flock,
And fills his barns with withered grass and grain,
In faith that, never doubting, dares to mock
The braggart frost-king in his stormy reign.
The veriest hind who better tills
The acres of his heir-loom hills,
Than his own soul and shallow brain –
Even while the ripening summer fills
The ears that nod with golden grain,
Ploughs for a year he has not seen,
Sows for a harvest beyond this,
Though barren winter howls between
Fruition and its prophecies.
Who plants an oak and waters its young shoot,
Toils for a generation yet unbornl
`A thousand years its giant boughs may scorn
Lightning and tempest, and its twisted root
Cling to the rifted rocks beneath its foot
Till the rocks crumble, mingling with the torn
Debris of empires founded since the morn
Its soft, twin leaflets burst the horny fruit.
Who plants for love of truth a living thought,
Though in the rudest hearts of evil men,
For the eternal centuries hath wrought,
And tribes beyond his fancy’s farthest ken;
Ever new gladness in its blooms shall start,
Forever its winged seeds shall find some willing heart.
But none will plant the acorn
Who hath not living faith
Far-reaching as the centuries,
And overcoming death;
None sow the seeds of nobler thought
To bless remotest time,
To whom no vital trust was taught
By elder faiths, or echoes caught
From heavenly harps sublime;
For every aim that lays its course
Beyond the present’s harbor-bar,
Sees, through the masks of Protean force,
The holy constancy of laws
That marry all effects to cause,
And suffer no divorce!
George Shepard Burleigh
