But, under all, my heart believes the day 
Was not diviner over Athens, nor 
The West wind sweeter thro' the Cyclades 
Than here and now; and from the altar of To-day 
The eloquent, quick tongues of flame uprise 
As fervid, if not unfaltering as of old, 
And life atones with speed and plenitude 
For coarser texture. Our poor present will, 
Far in the brooding future, make a past 
Full of the morning's music still, and starred 
With great tears shining on the eyelids' eaves 
Of our immortal faces yearning t'wards the sun.