The Awful Seers Of Old, Who Wrote In Words Like Drops Of Blood Great Thoughts That Through The Night Of Ages Burn, As Eyes Of Lions Light Deep Jungle-Dusks; Who Smote With Songs Like Swords The Soul Of Man On Its Most Secret Chords, And Made The Heart Of Him A Harp To Smite, Where Are They? Where That Old Man Lorn Of Sight, The King Of Song Among These Laurelled Lords? But Where Are All The Ancient Singing-Spheres That Burst Through Chaos Like The Summer'S Breath Through Ice-Bound Seas Where Never Seaman Steers? Burnt Out. Gone Down. No Star Remembereth These Stars And Seers Well-Silenced Through The Years The Songless Years Of Everlasting Death.