The deepest dream is of mad governors, 
Down, down we feel it, till the very crust 
Of the world cracks, and where there was no dust, 
Atoms of ruin rise. Confusion stirs, 
And fear; and all our thoughts--dark scavengers-- 
Feed on the center's refuse. Hope is thrust 
Like wind away, and love sinks into lust 
For merest safety, meanest of levelers. 

And then we wake. Or do we? Sleep endures 
More than the morning can, when shadows lie 
Sharper than mountains, and the cleft is real 
Between us and our kings. What sun assures 
Our courage, and what evening by and by 
Descends to rest us, and perhaps to heal?