The Everlasting Reality of Religion

Here sits he shaping wings to fly;
His heart forebodes a mystery:
He names the name Eternity.

That type of Perfect in his mind
In Nature can he nowhere find,
He sows himself on every wind.

He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend,
And through thick veils to apprehend
A labour working to an end.

Tennyson, The Two Voices.