Little being of a day,
    Glowing in thy cell alone,
Shedding light with mystic ray
    On thy path, and on my own.

Dost thou whisper to my heart?—
    "Though I grovel in the sod,
Still I mock man's boasted art
    With the workmanship of God."

See! the fire-fly in his flight
    Scorning thy terrene career,—
He, the eccentric meteor bright,
    Thou, the planet of thy sphere.

Why, within thy cavern damp,
    Thus with trembling haste dost cower?
Fear'st thou I would quench thy lamp,—
    Lustre of thy lonely bower?—

No!—Regain thy couch of clay,
    Sparkle brightly as before,—
Man should dread to take away
    Gifts he never can restore.