ON a midnight in midwinter when all but the winds were dead,
‘The meek shall inherit the earth’ was a Scripture that rang thro’ his head,
Till he dream’d that a Voice of the Earth went wailingly past him and said:

    ‘I am losing the light of my Youth
    And the Vision that led me of old,
    And I clash with an iron Truth,
    When I make for an Age of gold,
    And I would that my race were run,
    For teeming with liars, and madmen, and knaves,
    And wearied of Autocrats, Anarchs, and Slaves,
    And darken’d with doubts of a Faith that saves,
    And crimson with battles, and hollow with graves,
    To the wail of my winds, and the moan of my waves
    I whirl, and I follow the Sun.’

Was it only the wind of the Night shrilling out Desolation and wrong
Thro’ a dream of the dark? Yet he thought that he answer’d her wail with a song—

    Moaning your losses, O Earth,
        Heart-weary and overdone!
    But all’s well that ends well,
        Whirl, and follow the Sun!

    He is racing from heaven to heaven
        And less will be lost than won,
    For all’s well that ends well,
        Whirl, and follow the Sun!

    The Reign of the Meek upon earth,
        O weary one, has it begun?
    But all’s well that ends well,
        Whirl, and follow the Sun!

    For moans will have grown sphere-music
        Or ever your race be run
    And all’s well that ends well,
        Whirl, and follow the Sun!