drops which fall
    From clouds in travail of the lightning, when
    The great wave of the storm high-curled and black 55
    Rolls steadily onward to its thunderous break. 
    Why art thou made a god of, thou poor type
    Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force? 
    True Power was never born of brutish strength,
    Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs 60
    Of that old she-wolf.  Are thy thunder-bolts,
    That quell the darkness for a space, so strong
    As the prevailing patience of meek Light,
    Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace,
    Wins it to be a portion of herself? 65
    Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast
    The never-sleeping terror at thy heart,
    That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear
    Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile? 
    Thou swear’st to free me, if I will unfold 70
    What kind of doom it is whose omen flits
    Across thy heart, as o’er a troop of doves
    The fearful shadow of the kite.  What need
    To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save? 
    Evil its errand hath, as well as Good; 75
    When thine is finished, thou art known no more: 
    There is a higher purity than thou,
    And higher purity is greater strength;
    Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy heart
    Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might. 80
    Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled
    With thought of that drear silence and deep night
    Which, like a dream, shall swallow thee and thine: 
    Let man but will, and thou art god no more,
    More capable of ruin than the gold 85
    And ivory that image thee on earth. 
    He who hurled down the monstrous Titan-brood[20]
    Blinded with lightnings, with rough thunders stunned,
    Is weaker than a simple human thought. 
    My slender voice can shake thee, as the breeze, 90
    That seems but apt to stir a maiden’s hair,
    Sways huge Oceanus from pole to pole;
    For I am still Prometheus, and foreknow
    In my wise heart the end and doom of all.

      Yes, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown 95
    By years of solitude,—­that holds apart
    The past and future, giving the soul room
    To search into itself,—­and long commune
    With this eternal silence;—­more a god,
    In my long-suffering and strength to meet 100
    With equal front the direst shafts of fate,
    Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism,
    Girt with thy baby-toys of force and wrath. 
    Yes, I am that Prometheus who brought down
    The light to man, which thou, in selfish fear, 105