To-night the very horses springing by
 Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream
 The streets that narrow to the westward gleam
 Like rows of golden palaces; and high
 From all the crowded chimneys tower and die
 A thousand aureoles. Down in the west
 The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest,
 One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly
 The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel
 A mightier master; soon from height to height,
 With silence and the sharp unpitying stars,
 Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel,
 Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars,
 Glittering and still shall come the awful night.