Oh say, do the sprites of each tiny frost-crystal

That burns with the pent-up fire of suns

Ever dream or imagine the same holy vestal

Is burning in myriads of similar ones?

Do the spirits that dwell in the dust of a sun-beam,

As each in its course like a planet whirls,

Ever know they are bathed in the light of but one beam

From the sun of but one mighty system of worlds?

III.

Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in,