⁠That stung the sense like wine,
Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night,
⁠Or wailed as in some flooded cave
Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave.

⁠But we, our master, we
⁠Whose hearts, uplift to thee,
Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song,
⁠We ask not nor await
⁠From the clenched hands of fate,
As thou, remission of the world’s old wrong;
⁠Respite we ask not, nor release;
Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace.

⁠Though thy most fiery hope
⁠Storm heaven, to set wide ope
The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars
⁠All feet of men, all eyes—
⁠The old night resumes her skies,
Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars,
⁠Where nought save these is sure in sight;
And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night.

⁠One thing we can; to be
⁠Awhile, as men may, free;
But not by hope or pleasure the most stern
⁠Goddess, most awful-eyed,
⁠Sits, but on either side
Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn,