In her lovers' hearts I creep And tip with fateful coals the prophet's tongue; God-like from lips of poets I sing and leap,--  I the eternal fair, the eternal young! And none shall conquer me save they who call My strength to sovereign toil in craft or strife; With me shall tribes of men hold festival,--  Cities and realms shall find me Death or Life.

Repossessed of their ancient heritage, the four conqueror Elements sit on their dowered spheres.

Wind, Ember, Current, conscious Earth, the eternal weavers and toilers, labour in felicity.

Chaos and Night and Death are disenthroned. The system burns along its orbits through the dark. The benisons of the stars and suns are cast upon these youngest worlds.

Buoyant and blithe the planets wheel.

Their year-long arcs and each season's ordained processional are portioned unto them: their vassal moons also and the speed of their turning and their measure of night and day.

The ruddy jocund Earth presses close to the Sun, timorous of the outer void, baring her bosom to his kiss.

Has not the inevitable and recurrent Spring of Existence come unto her once again? The iron shackles of Silence--are they not broken?--the granite of the Night, is it not crumbled low?--the ice of Death, is it not molten?

She blooms in her resurrection; her voice is lifted in the universal litany to Life. She rolls in her golden garniture of beams, circling with the singing sister-spheres. Her rondure floats against the distant cohorts of the constellations.

The ancient Spirit of Chaos swings her pitchy cressets, and sinks down the starless deep on her tall catafalque of Death.

Rejoice, O orb vestured in beauty! Put forth thy wings, thy coronals of Love, wrap thee with fluctuant Winds and exulting Seas!

Shall thy offspring feel dismay, knowing what light shall burst from dark, what life leap from Death, what flowers blow from dust?

So the anointed and belted spheres, re-risen from their bath of silence and their sleep of time, move on companioned with eternal hope.

The fingers of the Sun stroke forth a glorious strain; the worlds are shawns and cymbals for his minstrelsy. The Spirit of Creation pours forth her victorious 

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