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.