Prospect.

When at the threshold of the unseen land,
Turned are my footsteps into stranger ways,
What shall I gather in my trembling hand
Of all this glorious wealth of other days?

For it is mine alone, this hidden treasure,
Gained in my journey through Life's changeful year;
Gathered unceasing with no thought of measure
Till now the time to leave this world draws near.

For no one knows the things that I remember;
No one can see the scenes that I can see;
Now, in this waiting hour of Life's December,
Alone these songs and thoughts belong to me.