Poetry Is The Morning Dream Of Great

Soul Of The Universe, Sire, God, Creator, Lord, I Believe In Thee, 'neath All These Names: And Without Having Need To Hear Thy Word, In The Sky's Brow My Glorious Creed I Trace.

Private Passions Grow Tired And Wear Themselves Out; Political Passions, Never.

The Impartiality Of History Is Not That Of The Mirror, Which Merely Reflects Objects, But Of The Judge, Who Sees, Listens, And Decides.

Esteem Incites Friendship, But Not Love; The Former Is The Twin Brother Of Reverence; The Latter Is The Child Of Equality.

Thou Makest The Man, O Sorrow!--yes, The Whole Man,--as The Crucible Gold.