Prophecy

W. EDSON SMITH

In God's good time the sunlight clear
Will flood our paths with gleaming gold,
And all the griefs of yester-year
In gladness and great joy unfold:
White blooms will spread their fragrance far
O'er wide, wide fields of wrong,
And sober woodland silences
Break into silver song.

In God's good time it will be well
With us, forever and for aye;
Grim winds of winter no more dwell
Upon the meadows of the May.
O heart, have hope of happiness!
From countless bells there chime
Soft pagans of the perfect peace
Which comes in God's good time.