Deep with divine tautology,
    The sunset's mighty mystery
    Again has traced the scroll-like west
    With hieroglyphs of burning gold:
    Forever new, forever old,
    Its miracle is manifest.

    Time lays the scroll away. And now
    Above the hills a giant brow
    Of cloud Night lifts; and from his arm,
    Barbaric black, upon the world,
    With thunder, wind and fire, is hurled
    His awful argument of storm.

    What part, O man, is yours in such?
    Whose awe and wonder are in touch
    With Nature, - speaking rapture to
    Your soul, - yet leaving in your reach
    No human word of thought or speech
    Commensurate with the thing you view.

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