To Create A Little Flower Is The

The Prophets Isaiah And Ezekiel Dined With Me, And I Asked Them How They Dared So Roundly To Assert, That God Spoke To Them; And Whether They Did Not Think At The Time, That They Would Be Misunderstood, & So Be The Cause Of Imposition. Isaiah Answer'd, I Saw No God, Nor Heard Any, In A Finite Organical Perception; But My Senses Discover'd The Infinite In Every Thing, And As I Was Then Persuaded, & Remain Confirm'd; That The Voice Of Honest Indignation Is The Voice Of God, I Cared Not For Consequences But Wrote.

Silent As Despairing Love, And Strong As Jealousy.

Where Lambs Have Nibbled, Silent Moves The Feet Of Angels Bright; Unseen They Pour Blessing, And Joy Without Ceasing, On Each Bud And Blossom, And Each Sleeping Bosom.

My Mother Bore Me In The Southern Wild, And I Am Black, But O! My Soul Is White; White As An Angel Is The English Child, But I Am Black As If Bereaved Of Light.

How Sweet I Roamed From Field To Field, And Tasted All The Summer's Pride, Till I The Prince Of Love Beheld, Who In The Sunny Beams Did Glide!