第47章

THE steam, the reek, the fume, of prayer Blown outward for a million years, Becomes a mist between the spheres, And waking Sentience struggles there.

Prayer still creates the boon we pray;

And gods we've hoped for, from those hopes Will gain sufficient form one day And in full godhood storm the slopes Where ancient Chaos, stark and gray, Already trembles for his sway.

When that the restless worlds would fly Their wish created rapid wings, But not till aeons had passed by With dower of many idler things;

And when dumb flesh demanded speech Speech struggled to the lips at last;--Now the unpeopled Void, and vast, Clean to that uttermost blank beach Whereto the boldest thought may reach That voyages from the vaguest past--(Dim realm and ultimate of space)--Is vexed and troubled, stirs and shakes, In prescience of a god that wakes, Born of man's wish to see God's face!

The endless, groping, dumb desires,--The climbing incense thick and sweet, The lovely purpose that aspires, The wraiths of vapor wing'd and fleet That rise and run with eager feet Forth from a myriad altar fires:

All these become a mist that fills The vales and chasms nebular;

A shaping Soul that moves and thrills The wastes between red star and star!