In Tesla’s Laboratory

Here in the dark what ghostly figures press!— No phantom of the Past, or grim or sad; No wailing spirit of woe; no spectre, clad In white and wandering cloud, whose dumb distress Is that its crime it never may confess; No shape from the strewn sea; nor they that add The link of Life and Death,—the tearless mad, That live nor die in dreary nothingness: But blessed spirits waiting to be born— Thoughts to unlock the fettering chains of Things; The Better Time; the Universal Good. Their smile is like the joyous break of morn; How fair, how near, how wistfully they brood! Listen! that murmur is of angels’ wings.