The poem
IN day from some titanic past it seems As if a thread divine of memory runs; Born ere the Mighty One began his dreams, Or yet were stars and suns.
But here an iron will has fixed the bars; Forgetfulness falls on earth’s myriad races: No image of the proud and morning stars Looks at us from their faces.
Yet yearning still to reach to those dim heights, Each dream remembered is a burning-glass, Where through to darkness from the Light of Lights Its rays in splendour pass.