The owlet Atheism,
Sailing on obscene wings across the noon,
Drops his blue-fringed lids, and shuts them close,
And, hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,
Cries out, “Where is it?”
Coleridge.
They eat
Their daily bread, and draw the breath of Heaven
Without or thought or thanks; Heaven’s roof, to them,
Is but a painted ceiling hung with lamps,