Perchance a prophet thou —
Who knows? Who dares touch
The depths where Mother hides
Her silent failless bolts!
Perchance the child had glimpse
Of shades, behind the scenes,
With eager eyes and strained,
Quivering forms—ready
To jump in front and be
Events! resistless, strong.
Who knows but Mother, how,
And where, and when, they come?
Perchance the shining sage
Saw more than he could tell;
Who knows, what soul, and when,
The Mother makes Her throne?
What law would freedom bind?
What merit guide Her will,
Whose freak is greatest order,
Whose will resistless law?
To child may glories ope
Which father never dreamt;
May thousandfold in daughter
Her powers Mother store.