In nights, there is the time of the generic dumbness,
And in this hour of vision and surprise,
The living chariot of the creation's vastness
Is shown, rolling through the shrine of skies.
The night gets thicker then, like Chaos on the floods;
Like Atlas, the oblivion grips the earth;
And just the Muse's virgin soul, else,
Is touched, in her prophetic dreams, by gods.