These are the pillars, on whose tops
The white stars rest like capitals,
Whence every living spark that drops
Kindles and blazes as it falls;
And if the arch-fiend rise to pluck,
Or stoop to crush their beauty down,
A thousand other sparks are struck,
That Glory settles in her crown.
The huge ship, with its brassy share,
Ploughs on to lead their light its course,
And veins of iron cleave the air
To waft it from its burning source;
All, from the insect's tiny wings,
And the small drop of morning dew,
To the wide universe of things,
The light is shining, burning through.
The light that makes the poet's page
Of stories beautiful as truth,
And pours upon the locks of age
The glory of eternal growth.