How they sweep down and out! how they mutter! Poets unnamed⁠—artists greatest of any, with cherish’d lost designs, Love’s unresponse⁠—a chorus of age’s complaints⁠—hope’s last words, Some suicide’s despairing cry, Away to the boundless waste, and never again return.

On to oblivion then! On, on, and do your part, ye burying, ebbing tide! On for your time, ye furious debouché!

And yet not you alone, twilight and burying ebb, Nor you, ye lost designs alone⁠—nor failures, aspirations; I know, divine deceitful ones, your glamour’s seeming; Duly by you, from you, the tide and light again⁠—duly the hinges turning, Duly the needed discord-parts offsetting, blending, Weaving from you, from Sleep, Night, Death itself, The rhythmus of Birth eternal.