SHALL slow oblivion, only, quell the past

And hurl with unconcern both good and ill

To sightless Limbo—lust and godlike will

To indecipherable ruin cast ?

Then each new time too well must match the last;

The frame of days with former bane refill;

The hands that clutch at good be empty still—

No haven found—tired feet held quagmire-fast.

How shall the new thing greatly come to pass ?

How piling debts yield zero for their sum ?

From dream-inchoate hope could harvest come—

Ablaze with forms divine, be mind set free—

And soul's bright gold shine through the perished brass ?

Giver and forgiver, how—save through Thee ?