By the heat of their own heart’s light;
The million worlds which round them turn
Float dead in a nebulous night.
The meteor’s burst is its funeral beam—
Only the game fish swims up stream.
Only the man is made for fame—
Ocean and eagle and sun—
Whose soul, by Fate, is dipt in flame
And winged with the winners who run.
Fame for the Faithful—death for the dead—