630
The Lightning playeth—all the while
But when He singeth—then
Ourselves are conscious He exist
And we approach Him—stern
With Insulators—and a Glove
Whose short—sepulchral Ba**
Alarms us—tho' His Yellow feet
May pa**—and counterpa**
Upon the Ropes—above our Head
Continual—with the News
Nor We so much as check our speech
Nor stop to cross Ourselves