Man rides at elbow with the flying gale,
Shrinks up the ancient spaces: land and sea
Dispute his wingèd way without avail—
“All but the Arctic silences, where stands
The Spirit of the Winters, and denies,
With incontestable gesture of white hands,
And lure of baleful beauty in her eyes.
“It is the hour of man: new Purposes,
Broad-shouldered, press against the world’s slow gate;
And voices from the vast eternities