CHORUS OF SPIRITS
  From unremembered ages we
  Gentle guides and guardians be
  Of heaven-oppressed mortality;
  And we breathe, and sicken not,
  The atmosphere of human thought:
  Be it dim, and dank, and gray,
  Like a storm-extinguished day,
  Travelled o'er by dying gleams;
  Be it bright as all between
  Cloudless skies and windless streams,
  Silent, liquid, and serene;
  As the birds within the wind,
  As the fish within the wave,
  As the thoughts of man's own mind
  Float through all above the grave;
  We make there our liquid lair,
  Voyaging cloudlike and unpent
  Through the boundless element:
  Thence we bear the prophecy
  Which begins and ends in thee!

IONE
  More yet come, one by one; the air around them
  Looks radiant as the air around a star.