May200914

Demogorgon: From Prometheus Unbound
Percy Bysshe Shelley

This is the Day, which down the void abysm
At the Earth-born’s spell yawns for Heaven’s despotism
And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep;
Lore, from its awful throne of patient power
In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour
Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep,
And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs
And folds over the world its healing wings.

Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance, –
These are the seals of that most firm assurance
Which bars the pit over Destruction’s strength;
And if, with infirm-hand, Eternity,
Mother of many acts and hours, should free
The serpent that would clasp her with his length, –
These are the spells by which to re-assume
An empire o’er the disentangled Doom.

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
To forgive wrongs darker than Death or Night;
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
To love, and bear; to hope, till Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent:
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory.

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