Beyond the bourn of dreams, their fortunate sphere,
Golden and large in some rich galaxy,
Rolls upon ways prolonged of harmony;
And they, with wingless toil of many a year,
Unto the calm of heavens have clomb anear—
Wise with the secrets of eternity,
And forcing truce with time. . . . They deem them free
From change, and from the old, unchanging fear.

But on their immortality is blight—
Whose dream betraying deserts have undone:
They turn, where winds make chill the ashen light,
Blown as from space and bleak oblivion;
And mark the dim, portentous breath of Night,
A mist penumbral on the noontide sun.