By George Sterling

Her hands, that seem so pitiless, unbar
    The gates of her incomparable halls
    Where crowns of light make monarchs of her thralls,
In whom the kingdoms of the Future are.
Her eyes seem cruel, but they see afar,
    And her lips bitter, but their music falls
    As from the heavens the dawn, and fram her walls
The watchmen first descry the morning star-

For she alone is truly merciful:
The spectres of mirage her winds annul
    Have risen but for man's bewildering;
        And in the dusk descending to the grave
        Her dim and caverned lamp alone can save,
    Or show salvation but a futile thing.

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