 | English Roses |  |
THE ASTRAL PLANE.
Don't say this is the heavenly land,The final goal to Man for ever
Of happy thought, and high endeavour
To find a basis where to stand;
Don't tell me, what around environs
My view, is hell-without gridirons,
And all the precious tools to brand.
Too bad for Heaven, too good for hell,
With pleasant sounds if not like Simms' tone;
It has not even the proper smell,
Nor just the faintest breath of brimstone.
It can't be Tophet or Gehenna,
Or (what is worse) our own Vienna;
It can't be Calvin's blissful bound,
Or Hebrew Sheol or Greek Hades—
For I can see no nice old ladies,
Who deemed salvation to be sound.
I'm sorely puzzled at the sight,
And whether under this or that sky
I waver between day and night—
But here (good luck) is the Blavatsky!
“Dear Madam, is it bliss or bane?”
“You d—d fool, it's the Astral Plane.”
| English Roses | |