It touches that stark, primal need
That from unpeopled voids and vast
Fashioned the first crude, childish creed,—
And still shall fashion, till the last!
For one word is the tale of men:
They fling their icons to the sod,
And having trampled down a god
They seek a god again!
Stripped of his creeds inherited,
Bereft of all his sires held true,
Amid the wreck of visions dead
He thrills at touch of visions new….
He wings another Dream for flight….
He seeks beyond the outmost dawn
A god he set there … and, anon,
Drags that god from the height!
. . . . . .
But aye from ruined faiths and old
That droop and die, fall bruised seeds;
And when new flowers and faiths unfold
They're lovelier flowers, they're kindlier creeds.
THE AWAKENING
THE steam, the reek, the fume, of prayer
Blown outward for a million years,
Becomes a mist between the spheres,
And waking Sentience struggles there.
Prayer still creates the boon we pray;
And gods we've hoped for, from those hopes
Will gain sufficient form one day
And in full godhood storm the slopes
Where ancient Chaos, stark and gray,
Already trembles for his sway.
When that the restless worlds would fly
Their wish created rapid wings,
But not till aeons had passed by
With dower of many idler things;
And when dumb flesh demanded speech
Speech struggled to the lips at last;—
Now the unpeopled Void, and vast,