We wove a fillet for thy head,
And from a flaming lyre
Struck a song that shall not die
Until the echoing stars be dead,
Until the world's last word be said,
Until on tattered wings we fly
Upward and expire.

And calm with night thou watchest till
Long after we are gone,
Not knowing how we worshipped thee;
Serene, unfathomably still,
Gazing to the western hill
Where pales the moon's hushed mystery,
White in the white dawn.

Cambridge