FROM JOB 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 than 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 a day! you wither ere the night, Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!' |