Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/65

 And us indeed no common arm, Nor magic of the dark may smite, But, through all elements of harm, Across the strange fields of the night—

Enrolled with the whole giant host Of shadowy, cloud-outstripping things Whose vengeful spells are uppermost, And convoyed by unmeasured wings,

We foil the thin dust of fatigue With bright-shod phantom feet that dare All pathless places and the league Of the light shifting soils of air;

And loud, mid fearful echoings, Our throats, aroused with hell's own thirst, Outbay the eternal trumpetings; The while, all impious and accurst,

Revealed and perfected at length In whole and dire transfigurement, With miracle of growing strength We win upon a keen warm scent.