Third Spirit
Peace! the abyss is wreathed with scorn
At your presumption, atom-born!
What is heaven, and what are ye
Who its brief expanse inherit?
What are suns and spheres which flee
With the instinct of that spirit
Of which ye are but a part?
Drops which Nature’s mighty heart
Drives through thinnest veins. Depart!
What is heaven? a globe of dew,
Filling in the morning new
Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken
On an unimagined world:
Constellated suns unshaken,
Orbits measureless are furled
In that frail and fading sphere,
With ten millions gathered there,
To tremble, gleam, and disappear.