BEFORE a grey-white bank of mist,

Shaped like a prison's wall,

The guardians as of yore resist,

Their fortress cannot fall.

Across a blurred dissolving mist

White pinnacles are seen,—

Then shall the Future re-enlist

The beauties that have been,

And bring a white supremacy

Of moon, a golden sun,

Processional star majesty

To cities half begun ?