Classic Poem

We stand upon a narrow strip of years,
Time's boundless ocean laving either shore;
One pale expanse behind us, and before
Another sea its vasty bulk uprears;
Out of the submerged centuries doth come,
No hint or whisper of the veiléd plan,
Still o'er the desert winds the caravan
To read the riddle, but the sphinx is dumb.
Man's soul, a restless captive clad in clay,
Sees not beyond the walls of Night and Day;
The wrecks of creeds and dogmas strew the past,
And prophecy is but an idle breath,
To know, we must adventure at the last,
'Neath the grim guidance of the pilot, Death.