Where Mercy, Love, And Pity Dwell, There

He Who Would Do Good To Another Must Do It In Minute Particulars.

Some Are Born To Sweet Delight, Some Are Born To Endless Night.

Struggling In My Father's Hands, Striving Against My Swaddling Bands, Bound And Weary, I Thought Best To Sulk Upon My Mother's Breast.

This Life's Dim Windows Of The Soul Distorts The Heavens From Pole To Pole And Leads You To Believe A Lie When You See With, Not Through, The Eye.

I Turn My Eyes To The Schools & Universities Of Europe And There Behold The Loom Of Locke Whose Woof Rages Dire, Washed By The Water-wheels Of Newton. Black The Cloth In Heavy Wreaths Folds Over Every Nation; Cruel Works Of Many Wheels I View, Wheel Without Wheel, With Cogs Tyrannic Moving By Compulsion Each Other: Not As Those In Eden, Which Wheel Within Wheel In Freedom Revolve, In Harmony & Peace.