⁠cast upon time is light,
Days whose sound was a spell shed round from wheeling
⁠wings as of doves in flight,
Meet in one, that the mounting sun to-day may triumph,
⁠and cast out night.

Two years more than the full fourscore lay hallowing
⁠hands on a sacred head—
Scarce one score of the perfect four uncrowned of fame
⁠as they smiled and fled:
Still and soft and alive aloft their sunlight stays though
⁠the suns be dead.