Earth's Crammed With Heaven.

This Race Is Never Grateful: From The First, One Fills Their Cup At Supper With Pure Wine, Which Back They Give At Cross-time On A Sponge, In Bitter Vinegar.

He Lives Most Life Whoever Breathes Most Air.

God Keeps A Niche In Heaven, To Hold Our Idols; And Albeit He Brake Them To Our Faces, And Denied That Our Close Kisses Should Impair Their White,-- I Know We Shall Behold Them Raised, Complete, The Dust Swept From Their Beauty, Glorified, New Memnons Singing In The Great God-light.

Foolishness And Criticism Are So Apt, Do So Naturally Go Together!

The Least Flower, With Brimming Cup, May Stand And Share Its Dew Drop With Another Near.