There is the name. How like a child was I,
That I must wait till these dumb letters gave
The shape and soul to knowledge: when the god
Stood here so self-revealed to ears and eyes
That, ’tis a god I said, yet wavering still,
Doubting what god,—and now, who else but he?
I knew him, yet not well; I knew him not:
Prometheus—ay, Prometheus. Know ye, my children, 1382
This name we see was writ by him we seek.
’Tis his own name, his own heart-stirring name,