The Future Not Being Born, My Friend,

The Man Of Science Is Nothing If Not A Poet Gone Wrong.

Around The Ancient Track Marched, Rank On Rank, The Army Of Unalterable Law.

I Expect Woman Will Be The Last Thing Civilized By Man.

For Singing Till His Heaven Fills, 'tis Love Of Earth That He Instills, And Ever Winging Up And Up, Our Valley Is His Golden Cup, And He The Wine Which Over Flows To Lift Us With Him As He Goes.

There Is Nothing The Body Suffers Which The Soul May Not Profit By.