Page:The children of the night.djvu/67



, remote, nor witting where I went, I found an altar builded in a dream— A fiery place, whereof there was a gleam So swift, so searching, and so eloquent Of upward promise, that love's murmur, blent With sorrow's warning, gave but a supreme Unending impulse to that human stream Whose flood was all for the flame's fury bent.

Alas! I said,—the world is in the wrong. But the same quenchless fever of unrest That thrilled the foremost of that martyred throng Thrilled me, and I awoke. . . and was the same Bewildered insect plunging for the flame That burns, and must burn somehow for the best.