Three worlds there are:—the first of Sense—
That sensuous earth which round us lies;
The next of Faith's Intelligence;
The third of Glory, in the skies.
The first is palpable, but base;
The second heavenly, but obscure;
The third is star-like in the face—
But ah! remote that world as pure!
Yet, glancing through our misty clime,
Some sparkles from that loftier sphere
Make way to earth;—then most what time
The annual spring-flowers re-appear.
Amid the coarser needs of earth
All shapes of brightness, what are they
But wanderers, exiled from their birth,
Or pledges of a happier day?
Yea, what is Beauty, judged aright,
But some surpassing, transient gleam;
Some smile from heaven, in waves of light,
Rippling o'er life's distempered dream?
Or broken memories of that bliss
Which rushed through first-born Nature's blood
When He who ever was, and is,
Looked down, and saw that all was good?