The future is as irreversible
As ironclad yesterday. There is no matter
Unless it be a dark and soundless letter
Of the eternal Writ no tongue can tell,—
Whose book is time. Whoever leaves his house
Has already returned. This life we lead
Is the future’s beaten pathway. And indeed
Nothing bids us goodbye or parts from us.
But don’t lose heart. The slave’s dungeon is black,
The way of things is iron, cold and hard,
But in some corner of your prison yard
There may be an old carelessness, a crack.
The path is like an arrow, deadly straight,
But in the cracks is God, who lies in wait.

This Issue

June 11, 1992