AS we spin towards the Bright,

Trundling to the hem of night,

Earth with bated hours hides

In dark more dreamless and more deep

Her winnowing air and crooning tides

And aeon-builded hills of sleep.

Out of darkness what shall come ?

Banished voices of the dumb—

Memories of forgotten splendour—

Sudden gleam of buried might

In the heart where Love the Lender

Mocks with Day the outward Night.