Mother of All

O strange old shadow among us, O sweet-voiced mystery,
Now in the hour of question I lift my voice unto thee.
Stricken, unstable the creeds and old things fall and are not.
The temples shake and groan and whisper we know not what.
The shapes and the forms of worship wherein the divine was seen
Are scattered and cast away on the fields of the things that have been.
A terrible stir of change and waking through all the land,
Till we know not what things to believe or what knowledge be near at hand.
Therefore I turn to thee, the nameless infinite,
Mother of all the creeds that dawn and dwell and are gone,
Voice in the heart of man, imperative, changeless, blind,
The call to the building of faith through the ages of all mankind. . . .
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.