He measures the lords of light

And fiery orbs that spin;

No riddle of darkest night

He dares not look within;

Athwart the roaring wrack of stars

He plumbs the chasm of heaven.

The wings of the wind are his;

To him the world is given;

His servant the lightning is,

And slave the ocean, even;

He scans the mountains yet unclimb’d

And sounds the solid sea.

With fingers of thought he holds

What is or e’er can be;

And, touching it not, unfolds

The sealÈd mystery.

The pigmy hands, eyes, head God gave

A giant’s are become.

But tho’ to this height sublime

By labour he hath clomb,

One summit he hath to climb,

One deep the more to plumb—

To rede himself and rule himself,

And so to reach the sum.

1898.