Each a primeval vastness, shaped by hands
Whose cosmic strength carved idly then forgot,
In half-created awfulness here stands,
For sun and wind and cloud and rain to rot.
No chaos do they seem, but as the work
Of a lone God, or one to purpose blind —
Who could not turn away from it, or shirk,
Yet without love or hope has wrought his mind.

And man was not when first their mythic shapes
Emerged phantasmal in the Great. Gulf's terror;
Nor shall man be when the last silence drapes
Their desolation's dread and deathless error.
For supra-human, supra-mundane, sunk
In dull and dread indifference they sit —
Abortive rock from whence all soul has shrunk,
Abandoned quarry of the Infinite.