Gazing aloft, he found the capsized Wain
In mid-plunge down the polar steep. Thereto
He set his back; and far ahead there grew,
As some pale blossom from a darkling root,
The star-blanched summit of a lonely butte,
And thitherward he dragged his heavy limb.
It seemed naught moved. Time hovered over him,
An instant of incipient endeavor.
‘Twas ever thus, and should be thus forever—
This groping for the same armful of space,