Our undiscovered cosmos. They shall see it-- A new creation rising from the deep, Beautiful, whole. We are like men that hear Disjointed notes of some supernal choir. Year after year, we patiently record All we can gather. In that far-off time, A people that we have not known shall hear them, Moving like music to a single end." They could not understand: this life that sought Only to bear the torch and hand it on; And so they made report that all the dreams Of Tycho Brahe were fruitless; perilous, too, Since he avowed that any fruit they bore Would fall, in distant years, to alien hands. Little by little, Walchendorp withdrew His rents from Tycho Brahe, accusing him Of gross neglects. The Chapel at Roskilde Was falling into ruin. Tycho Brahe Was Keeper of the Bones of Oldenburg. He must rebuild the Chapel. All the gifts That Frederick gave to help him in his task, Were turned to stumbling-blocks; till, one dark day, He called his young disciples round him there, And in that mellow library of dreams, Lit by the dying sunset, poured his heart And mind before them, bidding them farewell. Through the wide-open windows as he spoke They heard the sorrowful whisper of the sea Ebbing and flowing around Uraniborg. "An end has come," he said, "to all we planned. Uraniborg has drained her treasury dry. Your Alma Mater now must close her gates On you, her guests; on me; and, worst of all, On one most dear, who made this place my home. For you are young, your homes are all to win, And you would all have gone your separate ways In a brief while; and, though I think you love Your college of the skies, it could not mean All that it meant to those who called it 'home.' You that have worked with me, for one brief year, Will never quite forget Uraniborg. This room, the sunset gilding all those books, The star-charts and that old celestial globe, The long bright evenings by the winter fire, Of Tycho Brahe were fruitless; perilous The talk that opened heaven, the songs you sung, Yes, even, I think, the tricks you played with Jeppe, Will somehow, when yourselves are growing old, Be hallowed into beauty, touched with tears, For you will wish they might be yours again.