Prophetic longing for diviner things,
Escapes the unthinking breast;—
Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist,
But shrinks before the keen, cold ether, kissed
By burning stars: delirious foretaste
Of joys the soul—(too eager in its haste
To grasp ere won by the diviner right
Of birth through death)—is far too weak to bear!
Bathed in earth’s lesser light,
Slipping down slowly through the shining air,