Shakspere

In the lodges of the perishable souls
He has his portion. God, who stretch'd apart
Doomsday and death—whose dateless thought must chart
All time at once and span the distanced goals,
Sees what his place is; but for us the rolls
Are shut against the canvassing of art.
Something we guess or know: some spirits start
Upwards at once and win their aureoles.
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