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The Shade that, shaping first of all,

Prepares an empty room.

Then doth It pass

Like breath from glass,

But, on the extorted vision bowed intent,

No man considers why It came or went.

Before the years reborn behold

Themselves with stranger eye,

And the sport-making Gods of old,

Like Samson slaying, die,

Many shall hear

The all-pregnant sphere,

Bow to the birth and sweat, but—speech denied—

Sit dumb or—dealt in part—fall weak and wide.

Yet instant to fore-shadowed need

The eternal balance swings;

That winged men the Fates may breed

So soon as Fate hath wings.

These shall possess

Our littleness,

And in the imperial task (as worthy) lay

Up our lives' all to piece one giant day.