To-morrows and to-morrows stretch a grey
Unbroken line of shore; but as the sea
Will fret and gnaw the land, and stealthily
Devour it grain by grain, so day by day
Time’s restless waters lap the sands away,
Until the shrinking isle of life, where we
Had pitched our tent, wholly engulfed shall be,
And swept far out into eternity,
Some morn, some noon, some night, — we may not say
Just how, or when, or where! And then, — what then?
O cry unanswered still by mortal ken!
This only may we know, — how far and wide
That precious dust be carried by the tide,
No mote is lost, but every grain of sand
Close-gathered in our Father’s loving Hand,
And made to build again—somehow, somewhere—
Another Isle of Life, divinely fair!
We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to email@example.com.