In these evening hours where beneath heavy mist
the veiled sky fades and gradually sleeps,
pensively I walk, but without vain sadness,
upon this earth crowded with the dead.
I make my steps ring so they’ll still hear them
and they’ll dream, in their doleful and secret slumber,
of those whose greater strength and fervour
re-shape the world they had once made.
They do not ask that an idle anguish
drags itself weeping around their caskets.
They understand the part successive labour
contributes to happiness and honour.
Their spirit is in us but not to do us harm
nor push us, feeling our way, against the light.
They bestow their voice, so one hears the murmur
but it’s us, we who are singing out.
For the hour is ours at last; and the lovely light
and the earth and the waves and the roaring swarms
of forces you hear vibrate in matter
are enslaved to our designs.
For others are our hearts and gods and men,
for others our spirits, the power and its laws.
A new infinity makes us what we have become
and places its strength in our conviction.
Leap then, human longing, human power,
as far as they carry you, struggle or accord.
May your love be fresh and fresh your hate
upon this earth filled with the dead.