Wherefore thy burden and thy toil, O Sun?
Borne up the steep and hollow heavens afar
Thy worlds retard thee, who wert else a star,
Swift with white speed of many a lonelier one;
And heaving mightily, thy pulses run,
Swollen with fires of effort. Shall Mizar
Not pass thee, or the suns of Algebar?
And hopest thou to close with Procyon?
Howbeit, thou and these, thy starrier kin,
Transcending thee, strain ever, tho apart
And with unequal speed, within the same
Black maze of night and Time, where all shall win,
Tho with no path, nor clue, the hollow heart,
Uncompassed and oblivious, whence they came.