We see rise the secret wind behind the brain,
The sphinx of light sit on the eyes,
The code of stars translate in heaven.
A secret night descends between
The skull, the cells, the cabinned ears
Holding for ever the dead moon.

A shout went up to heaven like a rocket,
Woe from the rabble of the blind
Adorners of the city’s forehead,
Gilders of streets, the rabble hand
Saluting the busy brotherhood
Of rod and wheel that wake the dead.

A city godhead, turbine moved, steel sculptured,
Glitters in the electric streets;
A city saviour, in the orchard
Of lamp-posts and high-volted fruits,
Speaks a steel gospel to the wretched
Wheel-winders and fixers of bolts.

We hear rise the secret wind behind the brain,
The secret voice cry in our ears,
The city gospel shout to heaven.
Over the electric godhead grows
One God, more mighty than the sun.
The cities have not robbed our eyes.

God of the battle, hear our prayer! 
By the lifted falchion's glare; 
By the uncouth fane sublime, 
Marked with many a Runic rhyme; 
By the "weird sisters" dread, 
That, posting through the battle red, 
Choose the slain, and with them go 
To Valhalla's halls below, 
Where the phantom-chiefs prolong 
Their echoing feast, a giant throng, 
And their dreadful beverage drain 
From the skulls of warriors slain: 
God of the battle, hear our prayer: 
And may we thy banquet share!

Save us, God, from slow disease; 
From pains that the brave spirit freeze; 
From the burning fever's rage; 
From wailings of unhonoured age, 
Drawing painful his last breath; 
Give us in the battle death! 
Let us lift our glittering shield, 
And perish, perish in the field!

Now o'er Cumri's hills of snow 
To death, or victory, we go; 
Hark! the chiefs their cars prepare; 
See! they bind their yellow hair; 
Frenzy flashes from their eye, 
They fly — our foes before them fly! 

Woden, in thy empire drear, 
Thou the groans of death dost hear, 
And welcome to thy dusky hall 
Those that for their country fall! 

Hail, all hail the godlike train, 
That with thee the goblet drain; 
Or with many a huge compeer, 
Lift, as erst, the shadowy spear! 
Whilst Hela's inmost caverns dread 
Echo to their giant tread, 
And ten thousand thousand shields 
Flashed lightning o'er their glimmering fields! 

Hark! the battle-shouts begin — 
Louder sounds the glorious din: 
Louder than the ice's roar, 
Bursting on the thawing shore; 
Or crashing pines that strew the plain, 
When the whirlwinds hurl the main! 
Riding through the death-field red, 
And singling fast the destined dead, 
See the fatal sisters fly! 
Now my throbbing breast beats high — 
Now I urge my panting steed, 
Where the foemen thickest bleed. 
Soon exulting I shall go, 
Woden, to thy halls below; 
Or o'er the victims, as they die, 
Chaunt the song of Victory!