Aspiration

Poor, impious Soul! that fixes its high hopes In the dim distance, on a throne of clouds, And from the morning’s mist would make the ropes To draw it up amid acclaim of crowds— Beware! That soaring path is lined with shrouds; And he who braves it, though of sturdy breath, May meet, half way, the avalanche and death! O poor young Soul!—whose year-devouring glance Fixes in ecstasy upon a star, Whose feverish brilliance looks a part of earth, Yet quivers where the feet of angels are, And seems the future crown in realms afar— Beware! A spark thou art, and dost but see Thine own reflection in Eternity!