Think not that incense-smoke has had its
day.
My friends, the incense-time has but begun.
Creed upon creed, cult upon cult shall
bloom,
Shrine after shrine grow gray beneath
the sun.
And mountain-boulders in our aged West
Shall guard the graves of hermits truth-endowed:
And there the scholar from the Chinese
hills
Shall do deep honor, with his wise head
bowed.
And on our old, old plains some muddy
stream,
Dark as the Ganges, shall, like that strange
tide
(Whispering mystery to half the earth)
Gather the praying millions to its side,
And flow past halls with statues in white
stone
To saints unborn to-day, whose lives of
grace
Shall make one shining, universal church
Where all Faiths kneel, as brothers, in
one place.