Which, terrible and swift—not like a tale—

With speed of things which must be done, not said,

A river of bale, from guilty age to age,

Along the lamentable shore of things

Annual makes way, the history of the world,

Not of one race, one day. Up to its fount

That stream he tracked, that primal mystery sang

Which, chanted later by a thousand years,

Music celestial, though with note that jarred

(Some wandering orb troubling its starry chime),