A spirit pass’d before me: I beheld
The face of immortality unveil’d —
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine —
And there it stood, — all formless — but divine;
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen’d, thus it spake:
’Is man more just that God? Is man more pure
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to Wisdom’s wasted light!’