"What merest whim Seems all this poor endeavor after Fame To one who keeps within his steadfast aim A love immortal, an Immortal too! Look not so 'wildered, for these things are true And never can be borne of atomics That buzz about our slumbers like brain-flies Leaving us fancy-sick. No, I am sure My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury. Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A HOPE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DREAM!" Deep in the heart of the Caucasus mountains a wild storm was gathering. Drear shadows drooped and thickened above the Pass of Dariel,--that terrific gorge which like a mere thread seems to hang be…
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