The past is the opposite shallows of a river at flood to the lip.
And swift do the rapids swallow. And swift are the tides that rip.
And that which the past generations have builded on seeming stone
Is crumbled in deep desolations, and carried away on the foam.
Time is a raging torrent, a monsoon upstream somewhere,
Her hurricane gallons plummet, she has sweat of the sea in her hair.
And every single moment—and every moment is hers—
There washes away some important record of deeds or words.
The bank breaks up and it crumbles. The trees are themselves trampled down.
Earthen wounds bleed as they tumble into the torrent their blood stains brown.
That which goes into those waters it is futile to seek again.
It is lost to the sons and the daughters of the swept away race of men.
You and I, on the present shore, must remember the best we can
So that on the other side of the rain we may rebuild some shelter again.
The past is the opposite bankside, with the river at highest flood.
It hangs in an all-but-landslide, that will land with a deafening thud.
On the top a figure is crying, what they shout we cannot hear.
On our ears the thunder is lying. There is no way for them to draw near.
It is all of the direst importance, but the river yet rising roars.
It is pious and piteous portents, but the rain roareth even more.
You can catch, if your luck is with you, perhaps one of seven words,
(And spend all your days in asking if you remembered aright what you heard.)
Every moment we see them may be the very last.
Every raindrop may be the one that topples the bank of the past.
But whatsoever they are trying to say is precious enough to risk
Their life in the furious tempest to time's cataractic rift.
So hear as carefully as you can the hints they are trying to say
Ere soon the river shall rise again, and wash them too away.
And then prepare. Then hone your voice. For storms shall come again.
And not a one of us gets the choice of how, or where, or when.
Time makes no rainbow covenants, eternity hears no plea,
And, sure as the turn of the firmament, one day we must turn and see
That the future's the opposite shallows of a river in flood to the brim.
A lone man has made the crossing, but we are too weary to swim.
And all that's beloved and hallowed, we must try to shout to him.
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