No clock is set, no horn is blown;
the path is cleft by unseen hand.
The hour is lost, the stone unshown,
no foot may mark where ends the land.

It bides behind the blood and bone,
through bitter frost, through burning rain;
it hears no oath, it heeds no moan,
it knows no pity, spares no name.

A thousand boasts, a hundred cries
are scattered like the chaff and seed.
The proud are felled, the wise made blind,
the strong brought low, the swift laid weak.

No shield is wrought, no blade is cast
to drive its heavy will away.
It crowns the babe, it seals the past —
all bend the knee to Someday.