PROMETHEUS BOUND.
149
Thou! art thou like to God?
(I ask'd this question of the bounteous earth)
Oh thou, who givest birth
To forms of beauty and to sounds of mirth?
In all thy glory lurks the worm decay—
Thy golden harvests stay
Tor seed and toil—thy power shall pass away.
Thou art not like to God.
Thou! art thou like to God?
(I ask'd this question of my deathless soul)
Oh thou, whose musings roll
Above the thunder, o'er creation's whole?
Thou art not. Sin, and shame, and agony
Within thy deepness lie:
They utter forth their voice in thee, and cry
'Thou art not like to God.'
