Faith Springs from Knowledge

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!