In Tesla's Laboratory

Here in the dark what ghostly figures press!—No phantom of the Past, or grim or sad;No wailing spirit of woe; no specter, cladIn white and wandering cloud, whose dumb distressIs that its crime it never may confess ;No shape from the strewn sea; nor they that addThe link of Life and Death,—the tearless mad,That live nor die in dreary nothingness:

But blessed spirits waiting to be bornThoughts to unlock the fettering chains of Things;The Better Time; the Universal Good.Their smile is like the joyous break of morn;How fair, how near, how wistfully they brood!Listen! that murmur is of angels' wings.