Each moment is a threshold, each day and hour and year,
Of what has been, what shall be, of what shall disappear.
And through them slips the Universe, with still or throbbing tread,
From the mystery of the living, to the mystery of the dead.

Each moment is a threshold, that leads invisibly
To grief that glooms, joy that looms, to dull satiety.
We pass to them with passion, and out of them with peace,
And all the way is struggle, or rapture—and release.

Each moment is a threshold, to Being's House of Breath,
Or to the void, silence-cloyed, in Being's House of Death;
But all we know of either in these words has been said,
‘To-day we're with the living, to-morrow with the dead.’

Each moment is a threshold, but God is in the House,
God too, we think, somehow to link the Morrows with the Nows.
Or if He is not, marvel! For man himself is God,
Seeing a world that should be, within a soulless clod.
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