Луиза Сара Бевингтон (Louisa Sarah Bevington)

Three

WHAT of our time?
(Oracle.)

A fog and a blur,
A hum and a whirr,
And large mellow lights that are slowly dawning;
Lo! elements mixed,
Lo! centres unfixed,
A hope, and a fear; a chance, and a warning.

What of our time?
(Pessimist.)

The reign of the worse,
The breath of a curse,
Ash-fruit of man's pride and the knowledge he stole

False witness and fell,
Swift sliding to hell,
The shudder of heaven and the glare of the goal.

What of our time?
(Optimist.)

The reign of the best
By sympathy's test;
The travail of ages repaid in an age;
The finding of law
Where no prophet foresaw;
Glad glance of man's eye on his destiny's page.

What is our time?
(Oracle.)

A question of "When?"
An echoed "Amen,"
Vague answering around and below and above;
The hour of the sure,
Yet the hour of the pure,
And a blank new seal on the title of love.

What is our time?
(Pessimist.)

The death-hour of art;
The rending apart
Of the truth of man's thought from the hope of his life.
The cloud of death-dust
From a pageant of lust,
The triumph of force, and the mocking of strife.

What is our time?
(Optimist.)

The birth-hour of man,
The dawn of his plan
Whose purpose is life, yet whose cradle a grave;
The time of bold truth,
And of counsel for youth,
And a sword given into the hand of the brave.

What of our time?
(Oracle.)

Lo! the present re-cast
In the fire of the past
And the future is his who will venture the flame;
Thou child of the hour,
Thy will is its power,
Go claim it, and guide it, and give it thy name.

What is our time?
(Pessimist.)

The great sneer of God
At his animate clod
The oneness of angel, and poet, and beast;
The quenching of prayer
In the lull of despair,
The moan of the woman, the whine of the priest.

What is our time?
(Optimist.)

A greeting of bands,
A meeting of hands,
And barriers broken that hindered the deed;
The idol thrown low
That the Loving may grow
Where the shadow lay dark and the victims yet bleed.

What of the time?
(Oracle.)

Not yet have ye read,
Not yet have ye said,
It is less than your word, it is more than your thought;
Not good and not ill,
But eternal and still;--
What it was; what it shall be; unfound,--and unsought.

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