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!'