Who, in the stern confronting of a God
Has scann’d his own dimensions, and fall’n back
From an archangel’s reaching, to a man—
I feel like one on whom eternity
Has graven its large language, in the lines
Which mem’ry may not pass—nor can send back!
I am as one admitted to the door
That bars me from the future—the black port
Where clust’ring worlds come round, of spirits dim
Beckon’d to mysteries of another land.