God, the Soul

How few are they to whom the impalpable
     And unseen are a truth, and are, of all
     That is—of inert being or animal,
Fluid or gross, the living principle
     And very self—the acting miracle
Which makes our world a mystery. Yet men call
     This grand, sublime,—that puerile or small,
One weak or poor—another wonderful!
As though all Great were not of the Unseen,
     All Small, the absence of the Invisible One!
For what is vast bur nearing God? or mean
     But erring from the Godlike?—there is none
In the Unbounded must all limit end,
And from the one I AM, all being must descend.