Whose secret Presence, through Creation’s veins

Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;

They change and perish all — but He remains;

A moment guess’d — then back behind the Fold

Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll’d

He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.

But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor

Of Earth, and up to Heav’n’s unopening Door,

TO-MORROW, You when shall be You no more?

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit

Of This and That endeavour and dispute;

Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.