My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.
Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.
If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl, When Adam wak'd, so custom'd; for his sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
And the earth self-balanced on her centre hung.
The earth, though in comparison of heaven so small, nor glistering, may of solid good contain more plenty than the sun, that barren shines.
There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, both when we sleep and when we awake.
Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth