COULD we but guess, beyond the gates-on-gates, Who waits! Who sowed that misty acreage, -- our own, Unknown; Whereof the casual sheaves our garners fill With Good and Ill! Could we but guess, -- we scarce would claim as ours These gifts and powers -- But oh, ourselves in full we might forgive, And live! Could we but know -- past each ascending gate Is Fate; And nothing can we do, for there she stands With shaping hands! |