380 The Future Poetry
In a chance happening, fate’s whims and the blind workings or
dead drive of a brute Nature,
In her dire Titan caprice, strength that to death drifts and to
doom, hidden a Will labours.
Not with one moment of sharp close or the slow fall of a dim
curtain the play ceases:
Yet is there Time to be crossed, lives to be lived out, the
unplayed acts of the soul’s drama.