The Wingless Archangels

Beyond the bourn of dreams, their fortunate sphere, Golden and large in some rich galaxy, Rolls upon ways prolonged of harmony; And they, with wingless toil of many a year, Unto the calm of heavens have clomb anear— Wise with the secrets of eternity, And forcing truce with time. . . . They deem them free From change, and from the old, unchanging fear. But on their immortality is blight— Whose dream betraying deserts have undone: They turn, where winds make chill the ashen light, Blown as from space and bleak oblivion; And mark the dim, portentous breath of Night, A mist penumbral on the noontide sun.