Man hath harnessed the lightning; 
Man hath soared to the skies; 
Mountain and hill are clay to his will; 
Skillful he is, and wise. 
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.