The world, which of itself knows more and more,
Not to be frighted now with any fear:
Which runs its race with quicker beating core,
The faster, that it seems the end to near:
Which, when it finds the race has ne'er a goal,
But in a circle ended as begun,
From everlasting evermore will roll,
Smiles only and more fiercely on doth run:
A world at ease with Fate, at one with Death,
Which in museums hangs the chains it bore,
Accepts its won conditions, measureth
All by itself, and sets by each less store,
Such a world asks — if any may be seers —
Poets who wait not the Horatian years.