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Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
A SPIRIT PASS'D BEFORE ME.
SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld The face of immortality unveil'dDeep sleep came down on every eye save mine— And there it stood,-all formless-but divine: Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake:
"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure? Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! The moth survives you, and are ye more just? Things of a day! you wither ere the night, Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"