But few more years around the promontory
Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea.
No more, a barrier to the encroaching sand
Against the surf ye’ll stretch defiant arm,
Though with its onset and besieging shock
Your firm knees tremble. Never more the wind
Shall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards,
Nor sunset’s yellow blaze athwart your heads
Crown all the hills with gold. Your race is past:
The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth