Dust and dust of ashes close
    All the Vestal Virgins’ care;
And the oldest altar shows
    But an older darkness there.
Age-encamped Oblivion
Tenteth every light that shone.

Yet shall we, for Suns that die,
    Wall our wanderings from desire?
Or, because the Moon is high
    Scorn to use a nearer fire?
Lest some envious Pharaoh stir,
Make our lives our sepulchre?

Nay! Though Time with petty Fate
    Prison us and Emperors,
By our Arts do we create
    That which Time himself devours—
Such machines as well may run
’Gainst the Horses of the Sun.

When we would a new abode,
    Space, our tyrant King no more,
Lays the long lance of the road
    At our feet and flees before,
Breathless, ere we overwhelm,
To submit a further realm!