The vacant room of stars is flooded with a presence.
The tides of Life pulsate with the prophecy of Birth.
Now it is the Song of the Spirit of Creation that is heard on high
above the perished Solar Universe.
The dead worlds are hidden in the lap of Night, sightless, forlorn
wanderers. They move in darkness, unseeing and unseen, though
smitten by the rays of living stars.
Upon their cold breasts of stone the dust of ruined worlds lies as
a garment. Windless it lies as it falls or rises out of Chaos that
encompasses all.
The Spirit of Creation moves grandly through the deeps. In her hands
she bears Fire and Light, on her lips her all-conquering command.
She flings dead worlds among the dead, as a sower his seed or a
slinger his stones.
A spark is lit in the vast obscure. A glory, a rose of fire, blooms
in the pit of darkness. It is now a glowing mist with far-spread
vans, a phoenix wrought of flame.
The cloud gathers about it its flowing veils and swarming foam of
Fire. It winds them around its white effulgent heart. The sundered
flakes of crimson twist and turn, they shrink, yet do not flee.
Out of the blazing mists a new-born Sun shapes forth his awful
splendour. His worlds divest themselves of robes and wings, shining
in beauty white and pure.
The dead are born again and the stars rejoice in light.
From the molten orbs there comes a murmur, a fresh music to mingle
with the Sun's.
The words of the Spirit of Creation swell in a harmonious storm,
they mould the worlds as with hands, they sweep the plumbless spaces
as with a besom of winds.