It Is An Easy Thing To Talk

O White-robed Angel, Guide My Timorous Hand To Write As On A Lofty Rock With Iron Pen The Words Of Truth, That All Who Pass May Read.

Dear Mother, Dear Mother, The Church Is Cold, But The Ale-house Is Healthy And Pleasant And Warm.

Knowledge Is Life With Wings

Energy Is Eternal Delight.

Lo! Now The Direful Monster, Whose Skin Clings To His Strong Bones, Strides O'er The Groaning Rocks: He Withers All In Silence, And His Hand Unclothes The Earth, And Freezes Up Frail Life.