A Court Has No Right To Strain

Remorse Is As The Heart In Which It Grows; If That Be Gentle, It Drops Balmy Dews Of True Repentance; But If Proud And Gloomy, It Is The Poison Tree, That Pierced To The Inmost, Weeps Only Tears Of Poison.

Falsehood Is Fire In Stubble; It Likewise Turns All The Light Stuff Around It Into Its Own Substance For A Moment, One Crackling Blazing Moment, And Then Dies; And All Its Converts Are Scattered In The Wind, Without Place Or Evidence Of Their Existence, As Viewless As The Wind Which Scatters Them.

The Love Of A Mother Is The Veil Of A Softer Light Between The Heart And The Heavenly Father.

Perhaps 'tis Pretty To Force Together Thoughts So All Unlike Each Other; To Mutter And Mock A Broken Charm, To Dally With Wrong That Does No Harm.

And What If All Of Animated Nature Be But Organic Harps Diversely Framed, That Tremble Into Thought, As O'er Them Sweeps, Plastic And Vast, One Intellectual Breeze, At Once The Soul Of Each, And God Of All?