Have Patience, Heart.

Whoever Among Men Who Walk The Earth Has Seen These Mysteries Is Blessed, But Whoever In Uninitiated And Has Not Received His Share Of The Rite, He Will Not Have The Same Lot As The Others, Once He Is Dead And Dwells In The Mould Where The Sun Goes Down.

The Natural Thing, My Lord, Men And Women Joined.

By Their Own Follies They Perished, The Fools.

Close To The Gates A Spacious Garden Lies, From The Storms Defended And Inclement Skies; Four Acres Was The Allotted Space Of Ground, Fenc'd With A Green Enclosure All Around. Tall Thriving Trees Confessed The Fruitful Mold: The Reddening Apple Ripens Here To Gold, Here The Blue Fig With Luscious Juice Overflows, With Deeper Red The Full Pomegranate Glows, The Branch Here Bends Beneath The Weighty Pear, And Verdant Olives Flourish Round The Year.

To Heal Divisions, To Relieve The Oppress'd, In Virtue Rich; In Blessing Others, Bless'd.