On a Falling Group in the Last Judgment of Michael Angelo

How vast, how dread, o'erwhelming is the thought
Of space interminable! to the soul
A circling weight that crushes into naught
Her mighty faculties! a wond'rous whole,
Without or parts, beginning, or an end!
How fearful then on desp'rate wings to send
The fancy e'en amid the waste profound!
Yet, born as if all daring to astound,
Thy giant hand, O Angelo, hath hurl'd
E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight,
Down the dread void — fall endless as their fate!
Already now they seem from world to world
For ages thrown; yet doom'd, another past,
Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last!