PROSPERO Nay, nor her: For she is charmed against thy body’s rape By chastity of soul. Thy will and War May break, but cannot build the world: And One, Who bore us all within her womb, still lives To stanch our wounds with her immortal healing.
CALIBAN Where?
PROSPERO [Pointing.] Yonder, on the Yellow Sands! She rises now And calls across the tides of fleeting change Her deathless artists of the plastic mind— My art that builds the beauty of the world.
EPILOGUE
Where Prospero points, the light passes from the pageant of War to the centre of the Yellow Sands.
There, in mellow splendor, a serene female Figure, rising majestic from the altar, calls to the thronging shadows.
THE SPIRIT OF TIME Children of men, my passionate children, hark! To-day and Yesterday I am To-morrow: Out of my primal dark You dawn—my joy, my sorrow.
Lovers of life, you rapturous lovers, lo The lives you clutch are by my lightnings riven: Yea, on my flux and flow, Like sea-birds tempest-driven.