Could we but guess, beyond the gate-on-gates,
Who waits!
Who sowed that misty acreage, — our own,
Unknown;
Whereof the casual sheaves our garners fill
With Good and Ill!
Could we but guess, — we scarce would claim as ours
These gifts and powers —
But oh, ourselves in full we might forgive,
And live!
Could we but know — past each ascending gate
Is Fate;
And nothing can we do, for there she stands
With shaping hands!