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Upon the tinkling splintery battlementsWhich swing and tumble south in ghostly whiteBehemoth rushes blindly from the night,Behemoth whom we have praised on instrumentsDulcet and shrill and impudent with vents:Behemoth whose huge body was our delightAnd miracle, wallows where there is no light,Shattered and crumpled and torn with pitiful rents.

O towers of steel and masts that gored the moon,On you we blazoned our pomp and lust and pelf,And we have died like excellent proud kingsWho take death nobly if it come late or soon:For our high souls are mirrors of Himself,Though our great wonders are His littlest things.

© Crosland Thomas William Hodgson