What Men Call Accident Is God's Own

The World Is A Great Poem, And The World's The Words It Is Writ In, And We Souls The Thoughts.

Stars Which Stand As Thick As Dewdrops On The Field Of Heaven.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

True Faith Nor Biddeth Nor Abideth Form, The Bended Knee, The Eye Uplift; Is All Which Men Need Render; All Which God Can Bear. What To The Faith Are Forms? A Passing Speck, A Crow Upon The Sky.

Fulfill Thy Fate! Be-do-bear-and Thank God.