What Is Our Innocence, What Is Our

Poetry Is A Peerless Proficiency Of The Imagination.

We Prove, We Do Not Explain, Our Birth.

We Are What We Were At Birth, And Each Trait Has Remained In Conformity With Earth's And With Heaven's Logic: Be The Devil's Tool, Resort To Black Magic, None Can Diverge From The Ends Which Heaven Foreordained.

What Is There In Being Able To Say That One Has Dominated The Stream In An Attitude Of Self-defense; In Proving That One Has Had The Experience Of Carrying A Stick?

Excess Is The Common Substitute For Energy.