What a mighty illusion is Time!
That tyrannous phantom, Old Time!
Though withered and bald,
Still conqueror called;
Yet wherefore? this Nought-this condition of Thought-
This spell, which the fallible Senses have wrought,
Is dispelled by the Spirit sublime!

Free spirit, unfettered by crime,
To the loftiest Thought-Summit clime!
There, wouldst thou be wise,
Then lift up thine eyes
And thou shalt see Spirit and Matter shake hands,
Where the sea of Eternity washes the sands
Of the cloud-mantled island of Time!

When Genius doth grapple with Time-
That mental delusion called Time!
Mind's conquering grip
Doth God's matter-robe strip;
'Tis thus to immortals that moments and years
Are as one, for the goddess Eternity wears
For ever the bloom of her prime!

The Soul nestles not on the sod,
But builds on the bosom of God!
Time-Matter-and Space,
In Truth's heart, have no place!
Like the lightning's swift track through the gloomy cloud-rack,
Through such thought-mists the heaven-fledged spirit flies back
To its home on the bosom of God!