Angel

Thou art not let; but with extremest speed Art hurrying to the Just and Holy Judge: For scarcely art thou disembodied yet. Divide a moment, as men measure time, Into its million-million-millionth part, Yet even less than that the interval Since thou didst leave the body; and the priest Cried "Subvenite," and they fell to prayer; Nay, scarcely yet have they begun to pray. For spirits and men by different standards mete The less and greater in the flow of time. By sun and moon, primeval ordinances-- By stars which rise and set harmoniously-- By the recurring seasons, and the swing, This way and that, of the suspended rod Precise and punctual, men divide the hours, Equal, continuous, for their common use. Not so with us in the immaterial world; But intervals in their succession Are measured by the living thought alone, And grow or wane with its intensity. And time is not a common property; But what is long is short, and swift is slow, And near is distant, as received and grasped By this mind and by that, and every one Is standard of his own chronology. And memory lacks its natural resting-points Of years, and centuries, and periods. It is thy very energy of thought Which keeps thee from thy God.