Lest it be stricken to eternal night
By too much seeing ere my song be done,
And I must sing your body’s clouds that run
To hide you with their crimson, green and white
At sunset dawn and noon—and then the flight
Of stars that chant your praise in unison.
But I beneath the planetary choir
Still as a stone lie dumbly, till the dark
Lifts its broad wings—then swift as you draw nigher
I raise Memnonian song, and all must hark,
For you have flung a brand and fixed a spark
Deep in the stone, of your immortal fire.

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