All Night The Flares Go Up; The Dragon Sings And Beats Upon The Dark With Furious Wings; And, Stung To Rage By His Own Darting Fires, Reaches With Grappling Coils From Town To Town; He Lusts To Break The Loveliness Of Spires, And Hurls Their Martyred Music Toppling Down. Yet, Though The Slain Are Homeless As The Breeze, Vocal Are They, Like Storm-Bewilder'D Seas. Their Faces Are The Fair, Unshrouded Night, And Planets Are Their Eyes, Their Ageless Dreams. Tenderly Stooping Earthward From Their Height, They Wander In The Dusk With Chanting Streams; And They Are Dawn-Lit Trees, With Arms Up-Flung, To Hail The Burning Heavens They Left Unsung.