The awful seers of old who wrote, in words br Like drops of blood, great thoughts that through the night br Of ages burn, as eyes of lions light br Deep jungle-dusks; who smote with songs like swords br The soul of man on its most secret chords, br And made the heart of him a harp to smite-- br Where are they? Where that old man lorn of sight, br The king of song among these laurelled lords? br But where are all the ancient singing-spheres br That burst through chaos like the summer's breath br Through ice-bound seas where never seaman steers? br Burnt out. Gone down. No star remembereth br These stars and seers well-silenced through the years-- br The songless years of everlasting death.