Wan Night, The Shadow Goer, Came Stepping

I Cannot Be Content With Less Than Heaven.

Look On The Bee Upon The Wing 'mong Flowers; How Brave, How Bright His Life! Then Mark, Him Hiv'd, Cramp'd, Cringing In His Self-built, Social Cell, Thus It Is In The World-hive; Most Where Men Lie Deep In Cities As In Drifts.

What Men Call Accident Is God's Own Part.

Simplicity Is Natures First Step, And The Last Of Art.

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.