Thought Is The Soul Of Act.

Of What I Call God, And Fools Call Nature.

Dear, Dead Women, With Such Hair, Too--what's Become Of All The Gold Used To Hang And Brush Their Bosoms?

Finds Progress, Man's Distinctive Mark Alone, Not God's, And Not The Beast's; God Is, They Are, Man Partly Is, And Wholly Hopes To Be.

Men Are Not Angels, Neither Are They Brutes.

Only I Discern Infinite Passion, And The Pain Of Finite Hearts That Yearn.