Wonder Is Not Precisely Knowing.

When We Think Of His Lone Effort To Live And Its Bleak Reward, The Mind Turns To The Myth "for His Mercy Endureth Forever," With Confiding Revulsion.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul - And Sings The Tunes Without The Words - And Never Stops At All.

They Say That God Is Everywhere, And Yet We Always Think Of Him As Somewhat Of A Recluse.

Some Arrows Slay But Whom They Strike - But This Slew All But Him - Who So Appareled His Escape - Too Trackless For A Tomb

Till It Has Loved, No Man Or Woman Can Become Itself.