O sands, thou makest brethren of the stars,
Quiet, with thy inexorable tide,
And holdest in thy grains the gravitas
Withal thou wouldest stand afar to bide.
Unfeeling and uncaring O thou sands
How touched by none, though thou art touched by all?
We raise to thee our weak, imploring hands;
Join not that distant, vast, terrestrial ball.
Thou bearer of the mighty, dreaded steeds,
Upon thy flanks that wingèd chariot rideth.
Can aught yet move, or hasten to their deeds?
If thou stand, they by thy will abideth.
Then grant this one soul's desperate, anguished plea;
'O lente, currite noctis equi!'