Electric souls of strong Suns laid,
Strong hands along the awful shade
That God about His God-work made.
Ever from all ripe worlds did break,
Men's voices, as when children speak,
Eager and querulous and weak.
And pierc'd to the All-worker thro'
His will that veil'd Him from the view
"What hast thou done? What dost thou do?"
And ever from His heart did flow
Majestical, the answer low—
The benison "Ye shall not know!"
The wan ghost on the Hell-way sped,
Nor yet Valhalla's lights were shed
Upon the white brow of the Dead.
Nor sang within his ears the roll
Of trumpets calling to his soul;
Nor shone wide portals of the goal.
His spear grew heavy on his breast,
Dropp'd, like a star his golden crest;
Far, far the vast Halls of the Blest!
His heart grown faint, his feet grown weak,
He scal'd the knit mists of a peak,
That ever parted grey and bleak.
And, as by unseen talons nipp'd,
To deep Abysses slowly slipp'd;
Then, swift as thick smoke strongly ripp'd.
By whirling winds from ashy ring,
Of dank weeds blackly smoldering,
The peak sprang upward a quivering