Questions
THE steadfast planet spins through space,
And into darkness, into light
Swiftly it wheels its living face:
“'T is day,” we say, or “It is night.”
And we who cling and with it turn,
Till spent is our brief span of years,
Watching our sister stars that burn
Through the dim trouble of our tears,
We question of the silence vast,
Of souls that people distant spheres;
What of their future and their past?
Have they our sorrows, joys, and fears?
Do the same flowers make glad their sight?
The same birds sing? On their great seas
Do ships like ours, with canvas white,
Move stately, answering to the breeze?
Have they their Christ, their Christmas Day?
Know they Mahomet? Buddha? One,
Or all or none? And do they pray?
And have they wrought as we have done?
We cannot guess; 't is hard indeed,
Our own orb’s tale of its dim past
Through centuries untold to read,
And who its future shall forecast?
We only know it keeps its place,
An atom in the universe,
As through the awful realms of space
The mighty hosts of stars disperse.
We know the hand that holds in check
The whirling worlds, each in its course,
And saves the universe from wreck
And peril, this tremendous Force
Holds likewise all our little lives;
The suns and stars do all obey
His bidding, never planet strives
To swerve from its appointed way.
The dangerous boon alone to us
Is given, to choose 'twixt ill and well,
Rebellion or obedience, —thus
To build our heaven, or dig our hell.
But one great thought our strength upholds:
Nothing shall perish! Though his rod
Smites sore, his mercy still enfolds
His own; God’s souls are safe with God.
