Ah, interview it lightly, for you know
You’ll need your Wits to manage your Machine.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Lamps that shed
A steady Searchlight on our Path ahead;
To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Seven Thousand Dead.
Why, if your Car can fling the Dust aside,
And flying, through the Air of Heaven ride,