Sea to sea hath he wedded,
Canceled the chasm of space,
Given defeat
To cold and heat;
Splendour is his, and grace.
His are the topless turrets;
His are the plumbless pits;
Earth is slave
To his architrave,
Heaven is thrall to his wits.
And so in the golden future,
He who hath dulled the storm
(As said above)
May make a glove
That'll keep my fingers warm.