For I Say This Is Death And

All Poetry Is Putting The Infinite Within The Finite.

'tis Only When They Spring To Heaven That Angels Reveal Themselves To You.

Sorrow, The Heart Must Bear, Sits In The Home Of Each, Conspicuous There. Many A Circumstance, At Least, Touches The Very Breast. For Those Whom Any Sent Away,--he Knows: And In The Live Man's Stead, Armor And Ashes Reach The House Of Each.

Finds Progress, Man's Distinctive Mark Alone, Not God's, And Not The Beast's; God Is, They Are, Man Partly Is, And Wholly Hopes To Be.

All Good Things Are Ours, Nor Soul Helps Flesh More, Now, Than Flesh Helps Soul!