It Is Too Little To Call Man

Thou Art Slave To Fate, Chance, Kings, And Desperate Men, And Dost With Poison, War, And Sickness Dwell, And Poppy, Or Charms, Can Make Us Sleep As Well, And Better Than Thy Stroke. Why Swell'st Thou Then?

More Than Kisses, Letters Mingle Souls.

If Every Gnat That Flies Were An Archangel, All That Could But Tell Me That There Is A God; And The Poorest Worm That Creeps Tells Me That.

Friends Are Ourselves.

To Know And Feel All This And Not Have The Words To Express It Makes A Human A Grave Of His Own Thoughts.