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-