And shaped for itself its abode in the womb of the shapeless slime;
And the years matured its form with slow, unwearying toil.
Moulded by sun and storm, and rich with the centuries’ spoil,
Till the face of the earth was fair, and life grew up into mind,
And breathed its earliest prayer to its god in the dawn or wind,
And called itself by the name of man, the master and lord,
Who conquers the strength of flame and tempers the spear and sword;
For the world grows wiser by war, and death is the law of life,
The lowermost rock in the scar is red with the stains of strife.
Burst thro’ the bounds of sight, and measure the least of things,