ACROSS triumphant acres of the night

Slow-swung pinions of the unborn dream

To the hidden daybreak pursue primeval flight.

Chartless un frontiered aeons of the dark,

On their lonely silence breaks no morning theme,—

Our dreams have held the Promethean spark.

But half descried, the dawn-lit peaks of joy,—

There, living hues shall blend in a rainbow stream,

And there no sundering thought can enter or destroy.