The dead, with horror and distress,
As, roused up in their resting-place,
They look their dark walls through.
’Twas not to muse I hither came
Of nothingness my part;
Nor of my God, but of a name,
That deep in characters of flame
Is written on my heart.
Pardon, O God! the worldly thought,
Nor mark it midst my prayer;