In the past

There lies a somnolent lake

Under a noiseless sky,

Where never the mornings break

Nor the evenings die.

Mad flakes of colour

Whirl on its even face

Iridescent and streaked with pallour;

And, warding the silent place,

And, the last day being come, Man stood alone

And, the last day being come, Man stood alone

Ere sunrise on the world’s dismantled verge,

Awaiting how from everywhere should urge

The Coming of the Lord. And, behold, none

Did come,—but indistinct from every realm

Of earth and air and water, growing more

And louder, shriller, heavier, a roar

Up the dun atmosphere did overwhelm

Live blindly and upon the hour

Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord,

Who was the Future, died full long ago.

Knowledge which is the Past is folly. Go,

Poor, child, and be not to thyself abhorred.

Around thine earth sun-winged winds do blow

And planets roll; a meteor draws his sword;

The rainbow breaks his seven-coloured chord

And the long strips of river-silver flow:

Awake! Give thyself to the lovely hours.

Drinking their lips, catch thou the dream in flight

About their fragile hairs' aerial gold.

Thou art divine, thou livest,—as of old

Apollo springing naked to the light,

And all his island shivered into flowers.

Trumbull Stickney 

(Picture: The storm, Wojciech Siudmak)