Of prophets, while the ecclesiasts blandly toyed
With little calendars, which his “atheist’s book,”
In its irreverence, whispered quite away;
Whispered (for all such atheists bend their heads
Doubtless in shame) that, in the Book of Earth,
Six thousand years were but as yesterday,
A flying cloud, a shadow, a breaking wave.
Million of years were written upon the rocks
That told its history. To upheave one range
Of mountains, out of the sea that had submerged