My Hands Are Guilty, But My Heart

The Jews, A Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring Race.

Railing In Other Men May Be A Crime, But Ought To Pass For Mere Instinct In Him: Instinct He Follows And No Further Knows, For To Write Verse With Him Is To Transprose.

For Secrets Are Edged Tools, And Must Be Kept From Children And From Fools.

The Thought Of Being Nothing After Death Is A Burden Insupportable To A Virtuous Man.

That Gloomy Outside, Like A Rusty Chest, Contains The Shoring Treasure Of A Soul Resolved And Brave.