Weary of the march or fight,
He wrapped his heart in the vast dream
Of a World without a Seam;
Yet the dream was not divine;
The fierce heart beat like marching feet:
“The World is one—the World is mine!”
That was the dream of states foregone,
Of Babylon, of Macedon;
Sleeked by whatsoever art,
It is the dream of the beast’s heart.