Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.
Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.
To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!