When visions trail like clouds
Across the skies of memory
In the dreamy, balmy afternoon of thought,
Those unfrequented paths which once I trod,
Long overgrown with timeís obscuring briars,
Open once more before me;
Bright as morning sun,
Promising rare adventure.
And I feel again
The tingling of the old anticipation
Which never has been,
Nor ever can be, realized
This side of eternity.
For I have learnt
That the bright promise
And the beckoning promise
And the beckoning paths,
Though not illusory,
Serve only to sustain
That unappeasable yet unquenchable faith
In the ultimate reality
For which I yearn.
As the mill-wheel sun
Turns in the stream of time,
So are the sons of men ever supplied
As grist for the mill of life;
And in their grinding,
They are transformed
Preparatory to some enigmatic purpose.
And when the milling is done,
The streamís function
And the wheelís function
And the millís function,
All are fulfilled.
And when the stream is silent,
And the wheel is held,
And the mill is still;
Then shall their purpose unfold
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