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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 Bass
Alarms us—tho' His Yellow feet
May pass—and counterpass

Upon the Ropes—above our Head
Continual—with the News
Nor We so much as check our speech
Nor stop to cross Ourselves