We Have Woven A Web, You And

Fanatics Have Their Dreams, Wherewith They Weave A Paradise For A Sect.

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent, ’tis Very Sweet To Look Into The Fair And Open Face Of Heaven, — To Breathe A Prayer Full In The Smile Of The Blue Firmament.

I Am In That Temper That If I Were Under Water I Would Scarcely Kick To Come To The Top.