The Directory

By George Sterling

Selective Time! 'mid all the burthened reams
    Toil graves no name thy fretting moth shall spare,
    Even tho' one say, "Behold! my fame, a flare
Remote in alien dusks, forever gleams,
Lingering with the star." For glory seems,
    In sooth, a sunset drowned by glooming air,
    Nor empire may the stellar vigil share—
Gone like the music of forgotten dreams!

Gone! till on worlds that serve a younger star
    Estranged by voids that blot Arcturus' light,
    Or sunder Vega from the bourne of sight,
        Remoter life shall scan in vain the Deep—
Girt with the voiceless skies that hold afar
        Eternal night, sealing the race's sleep.

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