Not That Dull Spleen Which Serves I' The World For Scorn, Is Hers I Watch From Far Off, Worshipping As In Remote Chaldaea The Ancient King Adored The Star That Heralded The Morn. Her Proud Content She Bears As A Flag Is Borne Tincted The Hue Royal; Or As A Wing It Lifts Her Soaring, Near The Daylight Spring, Whence, If She Lift, Our Days Must Pass Forlorn. The Pure Deriving Of Her Spirit-State Is So Remote From Men And Their Believing, They Shrink When She Is Cold, And Estimate That Hardness Which Is But A God'S Dismay: As When The Heaven-Sent Sprite Thro' Hell Sped Cleaving, Only The Gross Air Checkt Him On His Way.