We shape, ourselves, the joy or fear
Of which the coming life is made,
And fill our Futures’ atmosphere
With sunshine or with shade.
We weave with colors all our own
The tissues of the Life to be,
And in the field of Destiny
We reap as we have sown.
Still shall the soul around it call
The shadows which it gathered here,
And, painted on the eternal wall,
The past shall reappear.
Think ye the notes of holy song
On Milton’s tuneful ear have died?
Think ye that Raphael’s angel throng
Has vanished from his side?
Oh, no! we live our life again;
Or warmly touched, or coldly dim,
The pictures of the past remain--
Man’s work shall follow him!

--John Greenleaf Whittier