Thy breath shall darken the morning, and wither the mounting sun;
And the daysprings, frozen and fettered, shall know thee, and cease
to run;
The heart of the world shall feel thee, and die, and thy will be
done.

The spirit of man that would sound thee, and search out causes of
things,
Shall shrink and subside and praise thee: and wisdom, with
plume-plucked wings,
Shall cower at thy feet and confess thee, that none may fathom thy
springs.

The fountains of song that await but the wind of an April to be
To burst the bonds of the winter, and speak with the sound of a
sea,
The blast of thy mouth shall quench them: and song shall be only of
thee.

The days that are dead shall quicken, the seasons that were shall
return;
And the streets and the pastures of England, the woods that burgeon
and yearn,
Shall be whitened with ashes of women and children and men that
burn.

For the mother shall burn with the babe sprung forth of her womb in
fire,
And bride with bridegroom, and brother with sister, and son with
sire;