If it ever be That thou and I should bring One to the other suffering Of loss and sorrow; or if fate decree That weariness of banal joys unstring The golden bow within us of desire; If thought's clear crystal vase entire Must in our spirits fall and break below; If, spite of all, I lie at last supine, Vanquish'd for not having been enough The prey of great, divine, Utter nobility-- Oh! let us be like maddened fools that climb the height Beneath the ruin'd sky; and let us closer, closer cling, And in one monstrous flight, With sun-drenched souls, cleave the on-rushing night! End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sunlit Hours, by Émile Verhaeren