When I contemplate this mine urgent race <br />And see what paths its tireless feet have worn, <br />In silence and essential night forlorn, <br />To each cold peak that gives on mental space,— <br />Each spirit-eyrie of our time and. place, <br />It seems a Titan toiling toward the morn, <br />With bloody feet and coronal of thorn, <br /> <br />Hasten, O Time, that far, atoning Day <br />Whose feet of fire shall quench the lesser lights. <br />Yet to whose music, old ere life began <br />And throats and harps were fashioned of the clay, <br />The seraphim or unconjectured nights <br />Shall hear stars chanting in the soul of man.<br /><br />George Sterling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ascension-13/
