And O the lifted faces glad and strong—
Eternal passion burning still and white!
But she who glances downward, who is she,
Her face stilled with the shadow of a pain?
The one who let all go for that mad chance?
And does some sudden gust of memory,
Bringing the earth, sweep back into the brain?...
But O the wild white whirl of the wild dance!
The Muse of Labor
And I saw a New Heaven and a New Earth.—St. John.