His spirit's eyes were opened and he saw Not far away, but near, within, above, As dwells the soul within this mortal frame, A world within this workday world of ours, The living soul of all material things. Eastward he saw a never-setting Sun, Whose light is truth, the light of all the worlds, Whose heat is tender, all-embracing love, The inmost Life of everything that lives, The mighty Prototype and primal Cause Of all the suns that light this universe, From ours, full-orbed, that tints the glowing east And paints the west a thousand varied shades, To that far distant little twinkling star That seems no larger than the glow-worm's lamp, Itself a sun to light such worlds as ours; And round about Him clouds of living light, Bright clouds of cherubim and seraphim, Who sing His praise and execute His will-- Not idly singing, as the foolish feign, But voicing forth their joy they work and sing; Doing His will, their works sound forth His praise. On every side were fields of living green, With gardens, groves and gently rising hills, Where crystal streams of living waters flow, And dim with distance Meru's lofty heights. No desert sands, no mountains crowned with ice, For here the scorching simoom never blows, Nor wintry winds, that pierce and freeze and kill, But gentle breezes breathing sweet perfumes; No weeds, no thorns, no bitter poisonous fruits, No noxious reptiles and no prowling beasts; For in this world of innocence and love No evil thoughts give birth to evil things, But many birds of every varied plume Delight the ear with sweetest melody; And many flowers of every varied tint Fill all the air with odors rich and sweet; And many fruits, suited to every taste, Hang ripe and ready that who will may eat-- A world of life, with all its lights and shades, The bright original of our sad world Without its sin and storms, its thorns and tears. No Lethe's sluggish waters lave its shores, Nor solemn shades, of poet's fancy bred, Sit idly here to boast of battles past, Nor wailing ghosts wring here their shadowy hands For lack of honor to their cast-off dust; But living men, in human bodies clothed-- Not bodies made of matter, dull and coarse, Dust from the dust and soon to dust returned, But living bodies, clothing living souls, Bodies responsive to the spirit's will, Clothing in acts the spirit's inmost thoughts-- Dwell here in many mansions, large and fair, Stretching beyond the keenest vision's hen, With room for each and more than room for all, Forever filling and yet never full. Not clogged by matter, fast as fleetest birds, Wishing to go, they go; to come, they come. No helpless infancy or palsied age, But all in early manhood's youthful bloom, The old grown young, the child to man's estate. Gentle they seemed as they passed to and fro, Gentle and strong, with every manly grace;