Third Spirit
Peace! the abyss is wreathed with scornAt your presumption, atom-born!What is heaven, and what are yeWho its brief expanse inherit?What are suns and spheres which fleeWith the instinct of that spiritOf which ye are but a part?Drops which Nature’s mighty heartDrives through thinnest veins. Depart!
What is heaven? a globe of dew,Filling in the morning newSome eyed flower whose young leaves wakenOn an unimagined world:Constellated suns unshaken,Orbits measureless are furledIn that frail and fading sphere,With ten millions gathered there,To tremble, gleam, and disappear.