God Let Me Fall From His Hand One Day At His Forge When The Elemental World Was Shaping. I Am But A Breath From His Great Bellows, But Here Among The Workshops Of Mankind I Am A Fateful Scourge. I Tear Red Strips From The Proud Cities Of Men; I Name My Passage The Highway Of Instant Death; I Splinter World-Old Forests With My Laugh, And Whirl The Ancient Snows Of Hecla Sheer Into Orion'S Eyes. I Dance On The Deep Under The Big Indian Stars, And Wrap The Water Spout About My Sinuous Hips As A Dancer Winds Her Girdle. The Ocean'S Horrid Crew, The Octopus, The Serpent, And The Shark, With The Heart Of A Coward, Plunge Downward When They Hear My Feet Above On The Sea-Floor, And Hide In Their Slimy Coverts. Brave Men Pray Upon The Straining Decks Till Comes My Mood To End Them, And I Strew The Racing Foam With Wreckage. I Am A Breath From God'S Forge. I Remember His Awful Workshop, How The Hot Globes Spun Off Into Infinite Darkness, As System By System, The Universe Was Wrought; And Then I Remember The Birth Of The Sun, How God Cried: "Let There Be Light!" And, Blinding, Bewildering, Exulting, The Great Orb Flamed From His Furnace, And Only The Creator Stood Upright. In That Hour I Fell From His Hand. I Am A Breath From God'S Forge, And, Being A Part Of Creation, I Shall Also Be A Part Of The End. He Has Told Me That There Shall Come A Day When The Seventh Angel Shall Open His Last Vial Of Wrath In The Mid-Air, And In That Day I Shall Dance With The Thunder, The Lightning, And The Earthquake, And, Dancing, Hear His Voice Cry Out From Heaven'S Temple: "It Is Done!"