1 No number tallies nature up,
no tribe its house can fill;
it is the shining fount of life
and pours the deluge still.
And gathers by its fragile powers
along the centuries
from race on race the rarest flowers,
its wreath shall nothing miss.

2 It writes the past in characters
of rock and fire and scroll,
the building in the coral sea,
the planting of the coal.
And thefts from satellites and rings
and broken stars it drew,
and out of spent and aged things
it formed the world anew.

3 Must time and tide forever run,
nor winds sleep in the west?
Will never wheels which whirl the sun
and satellites have rest?
Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
and mix the bowl again;
seethe, Fate, the ancient elements,
heat, cold, and peace, and pain.

4 Blend war and trade and creeds
and song, let ripen race on race,
the sunburnt world that we shall breed
of all the countless days.
No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
the oldest force is new,
and fresh the rose on yonder thorn
gives back the heavens in dew.