TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER .

The sun-god in his robe of gold
 That trails the argent clouds upon,
One day shall be a story told,
 And hidden in oblivion.

The thunder of his chariot
 Seems but as playing on a lute
To the Most High, who careth not
 If all the starry mouths be mute.

Yea, when the cosmic cycles ring
 No more around the Central Throne,
Shall not the Void beyond Him sing
 His praise in monstrous monotone?

The earth and her constellate peers
 Are fleeting as an evening chime,
And the irrevocable years
 Roll down the cataract of time.

Yet are we not all dust; the night,
 By Love's own breath made exquisite,
Shall for a space in passion's might
 Conjoin us with the Infinite.

And though the planets falling reel
 We shall escape the primal curse,
And in immortal numbers feel
 The heart-beat of the Universe.