ORPHEUS
O girded and spanned
By the deeds of time,
Rocks shattered and planned
In your depth: where climb
The race and the land,
And the growth sublime
Of worlds—I invoke ye! Come forth, ye centuries! Come
to the rhyme!
THE CENTURIES
How hardly a man ,
Though his strength were as a spring’s
Shall stretch out his span
To the width of my wings!
The years are enfolden
In my bosom golden,
My periods
Are the hours of the Gods.
They have their plan
In my seasons; all things
Are woven in the span —
Of the spread of my wings.
My brazen gates cleft
By shafts shed of time,
Are ruined and left
As the Gods sing their rhyme.
88