O what are heroes prophets men But pipes through which the breath of Pan doth blow A momentary music. Being's tide Swells hitherward & myriads of forms Live, robed with beauty, painted by the Sun: Their dust pervaded by the nerves of God Throbs with an overmastering energy Knowing & doing. Ebbs the tide, they lie White hollow shells upon the desart shore. But not the less the eternal wave rolls on To animate new millions, & exhale Races & planets its enchanted foam. |