Though all the world should fall into their cells
And lie within their larders shelf on shelf—
Yet will I toss the sheets of dust away,
Yet will I be the mistress of the sun!
* * * * *
1 A. M.
Look how they struggle in a mist of fire,
Those hunchbacked chimneys and distorted domes—
Now gloat on Hell, the colour seems to roar,
An army fierce upon its own destruction,