But Thought, like a mailed archer helmed and tall,
Treads ever on the outward battlement,
Striving to pierce — through embrasure and rent —
The secret of the gloom that girdleth all,
The immeasurable gulf and interval,
Nor heeds the random showers about him sent —
But whilst the cloudy squadrons tramp and wheel,
Busy with weight and bar and implement,
He casteth where to make his missiles fall —
Training his engine now, now lower, now higher,
As a strong archer sets his bow of steel.
Yet some may pass like meteors to the mark
Of those blind ventures loosed into the dark:
So swift the arrow flies, it taketh fire.