The Midge’s wing beats to and fro
A thousand times ere one can utter ‘O!’
And Sirius’ ball
Does on his business run
As many times immenser than the Sun. 
Why should things not be great as well as small,
Or move like light as well as move at all? 
St. Michael fills his place, I mine, and, if you please,
We will respect each other’s provinces,
I marv’lling not at him, nor he at me. 
But, if thou must go gaping, let it be
That One who could make Michael should make thee. 
O, foolish Man, meting things low and high
By self, that accidental quantity! 
With this conceit, Philosophy stalks frail
As peacock staggering underneath his tail. 
Who judge of Plays from their own penny gaff,
At God’s great theatre will hiss and laugh;
For what’s a Saint to them
Brought up in modern virtues brummagem? 
With garments grimed and lamps gone all to snuff,
And counting others for like Virgins queer,
To list those others cry, ‘Our Bridegroom’s near!’
Meaning their God, is surely quite enough
To make them rend their clothes and bawl out, ‘Blasphemy!’

XI.  AURAS OF DELIGHT.

   Beautiful habitations, auras of delight! 
Who shall bewail the crags and bitter foam
And angry sword-blades flashing left and right
Which guard your glittering height,
That none thereby may come! 
The vision which we have
Revere we so,
That yet we crave
To foot those fields of ne’er-profaned snow? 
   I, with heart-quake,
Dreaming or thinking of that realm of Love,
See, oft, a dove
Tangled in frightful nuptials with a snake;
The tortured knot,
Now, like a kite scant-weighted, flung bewitch’d
Sunwards, now pitch’d,
Tail over head, down, but with no taste got
Eternally
Of rest in either ruin or the sky,
But bird and vermin each incessant strives,
With vain dilaceration of both lives,
’Gainst its abhorred bond insoluble,
Coveting fiercer any separate hell
Than the most weary Soul in Purgatory
On God’s sweet breast to lie. 
And, in this sign, I con
The guerdon of that golden Cup, fulfill’d
With fornications foul of Babylon,
The heart where good is well-perceiv’d and known,
Yet is not will’d;
And Him I thank, who can make live again,
The dust, but not the joy we once profane,
That I, of ye,
Beautiful habitations, auras of delight,
In childish years and since had sometime sense and sight,
But that ye vanish’d quite,
Even from memory,
Ere I could get my breath, and whisper ‘See!’
   But did for me
They altogether die,
Those trackless glories glimps’d in upper sky? 
Were they of chance, or vain,
Nor good at all again
For curb of heart or fret? 
Nay, though, by grace,
Lest, haply, I refuse God to His face,
Their likeness wholly I forget,
Ah, yet,
Often in straits which else for me were ill,
I mind me still
I did respire the lonely auras sweet,
I did the blest abodes behold, and, at the mountains’ feet,
Bathed in the holy Stream by Hermon’s thymy hill.