Words Are The Motes Of Thought, And

Blessings Star Forth Forever; But A Curse Is Like A Cloud, It Passes.

I Am Tired Of Looking On What Is, One Might As Well See Beauty Never More, As Look Upon It With An Empty Eye. I Would This World Were Over. I Am Tired.

None But God Can Fill The Perfect Whole.

Man Is One; And He Hath One Great Heart. It Is Thus We Feel, With A Gigantic Throb Athwart The Sea, Each Other's Rights And Wrongs; Thus Are We Men.

Night Comes, World-jewelled, . . . The Stars Rush Forth In Myriads As To Wage War With The Lines Of Darkness; And The Moon, Pale Ghost Of Night, Comes Haunting The Cold Earth After The Sun's Red Sea-death--quietless.