Man hath harnessed the lightning; Man hath soared to the skies; Mountain and hill are clay to his will; Skillful he is, and wise. Sea to sea hath he wedded, Canceled the chasm of space, Given defeat to cold and heat; Splendour is his, and grace. His are the topless turrets; His are the plumbless pits; Earth is slave to his architrave, Heaven is thrall to his wits. And so in the golden future, He who hath dulled the storm (As said above) may make a glove That'll keep my fingers warm.