From the ordered gyres goes ever afar Our song of flame o'er the void unknown, Where circles nor world, nor comet, nor star, Shall it die ere it reach His throne?
Around its walls the forests of the west Gloom, as about some mystery's final pale Might lie its multifold exterior veil. Sculptured with signs and meanings unconfessed, Its lordly fanes and palaces attest A past before whose wall of darkness fail Reason and fancy, finding not the tale Erased by time from history's palimpsest.
Within this place, that from the gloom of Eld Still meets the light, a people came and went Like whirls of dust between its columns blown-- An alien race, whose record, shadow-held, Is sealed with those of others long forespent That died in sunless planets lost and lone.
A voice came to me from the night, and said, What profit hast thou in thy dreaming Of the years that are set And the years yet unrisen? Hast thou found them tillable lands? Is there fruit that thou canst pluck therein, Or any harvest to be mown? Shalt thou dig aught of gold from the mines of the past, Or trade for merchandise In the years where all is rotten? Are they a sea that will bring thee to any shore, Or a desert that vergeth upon aught but the waste? Shalt thou drink from the springs that are emptied, Or find sustenance in shadows? What value hath the future given thee? Is there aught in the days yet dark That thou canst hold with thy hands? Are they a fortress That will afford thee protection Against the swords of the world? Is there justice in them To balance the world's inequity, Or benefit to outweigh its loss?
Then spake I in answer, saying, Of my dreams I have made a road, And my soul goeth out thereon To that unto which no eye hath opened, Nor ear become keen to hearken-- To the glories that are shut past all access Of the keys of sense; Whose walls are hidden by the air, And whose doors are concealed with clarity. And the road is travelled of secret things, Coming to me from far-- Of bodiless powers, And beauties without colour or form Holden by any loveliness seen of earth. And of my dreams have I builded an inn Wherein these are as guests. And unto it come the dead For a little rest and refuge From the hollowness of the unharvestable wind, And the burden of too great space.