By George Sterling

Unheard but of the spiritual ear,
    Endures the challenge of the timeless Foe—
    Beyond the terrestrial voices and their woe,
An icy music, mercilessly clear.
Ever the sea of Chaos beats more near,
    Nor can one say how soon its tides shall flow
    Above this earth whose transciences we know—
A surf that breaks upon a frozen bier.

However high, however strong we build,
    Abides a higher and a stronger One,
In whose good time the clamorous deeps are stilled
    And the song ended and the labor done.
A little while, their hunger unfulfilled,
    The mothlike worlds flit 'round the guttering sun.

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