The Chariots Of Dawn

O Night, is this indeed the morning-star, That now with brandished and impatient beam On eastern heights of darkness flames supreme, Or some great captain of the dawn, whose car Scornful of all thy rear-guard ranks that bar His battle, now foreruns the helms that gleam Below horizons of dissevering dream, Who lifts his javelin to his hosts afar?

Now am I minded of some ocean-king That in a war of gods has wielded arms, And still in slumber hears their harness ring And dreams of isles where golden altars fume, Till, mad for irretrievable alarms, He passes down the seas to some strange doom.