Methinks that I shall meet thee far away,
Within the awful centre of the earth,
Where, earliest, we had our holy birth,
In some huge cavern, arching wide below,
Upon whose airy pivot, years ago,
The world went round: ’tis infinitely deep,
But never dismal; for above it sleep,
And under it, blue waters, hung aloof,
And held below,—an amethystine roof,
A sapphire pavement; and the golden sun,