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And the strong swift river my shrine below,
 * It runs, like man, its unending course

To the boundless sea from eternal snow;
 * Mine is the Fountain—and mine the Force

That spurs all nature to ceaseless strife; And my image is Death at the gates of Life.

In many a legend and many a shape,
 * In the solemn grove and the crowded street,

I am the Slayer whom none escape;
 * I am Death trod under a fair girl's feet;

I govern the tides of the sentient sea That ebbs and flows to eternity.

And the sum of the thought and the knowledge of man
 * Is the secret tale that my emblems tell;

Do ye seek God's purpose, or trace His plan?
 * Ye may read your doom in my parable:

For the circle of life in its flower and its fall Is the writing that runs on my temple wall.

O Race that labours, and seeks, and strives,
 * With thy faith, thy wisdom, thy hopes and fears,

Where now is the future of myriad lives?
 * Where now is the creed of a thousand years?

Far as the Western spirit may range, It finds but the travail of endless change;

For the earth is fashioned by countless suns,
 * And planets wander, and stars are lost,

As the rolling flood of existence runs
 * From light to shadow, from fire to frost.

Your search is ended, ye hold the keys Of my inmost ancient mysteries.

Now that your hands have lifted the veil,
 * And the crowd may know what my symbols mean,

Will not the faces of men turn pale
 * At the sentence heard, and the vision seen

Of strife and sleep, of the soul's brief hour, And the careless tread of unyielding Power?