There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like here remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.
Apologies for the poetry this early in the am, but Wallace Stevens' 'Sunday Morning' is the place I've found the best expression of my own atheism: that what we have here and now is more beautiful than an imagined future.