The Coming Singer

By George Sterling

The Veil before the mystery of things
    Shall stir for him with iris and with light;
    Chaos shall have no terror in his sight
Nor earth a bond to chafe his urgent wings;
With sandals beaten from the crowns of kings
    Shall he tread down the altars of their night,
    And stand with Silence on her breathless height,
To hear what song the star of morning sings.

With perished beauty in his hands as clay,
    Shall he restore futurity its dream.
Behold! his feet shall take a heavenly way
        Of choric silver and of chanting fire,
    Till in his hands unshapen planets gleam,
        'Mid murmurs from the Lion and the Lyre.

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