Kings from their thrones are hurled.
Beauty is wed to Use.
There lies he on the skirts of the great world,
Undisciplined, aimless, loose,—
In negligent grandeur loose.
Our golden-haired, our Orpheus dumb,
List thy glory yet to come:—
“Rolling through the thoughtful ages,
Song of our Heir of Bardic Sages,
Majestic how it rolls along,
That far-related planetary Song!”
Child of our Promise of this great To-Be,
He flouts it all beneath the Forest Tree.
Hopeless love is but a fit;
Leave him yet, leave him yet.
Hush! in the audience-chamber of his soul
Stand the Solemnities: they claim him whole.
Behold him now! that kingly brow,
That eye compact of purpose true;
And waving wide his locks of pride,
Our Titan up to dare and do.
He dared and did. He won the palm.
Law to himself, he ruled desire.
An Iceland alp, his high white calm
Sleeps on the wells of fire.