Man Has Closed Himself Up,

The Pure Soul Shall Mount On Native Wings, . . . And Cut A Path Into The Heaven Of Glory.

Rome & Greece Swept Art Into Their Maw & Destroy'd It; A Warlike State Never Can Produce Art. It Will Rob & Plunder & Accumulate Into One Place, & Translate & Copy & Buy & Sell & Criticize, But Not Make.

I Have Conversed With The Spiritual Sun. I Saw Him On Primrose Hill

Lives In Eternity's Sun Rise.

Can I See Another's Woe, And Not Be In Sorrow Too? Can I See Another's Grief, And Not Seek For Kind Relief? Can I See A Falling Tear, And Not Feel My Sorrow's Share? Can A Father See His Child Weep, Nor Be With Sorrow Filled? Can A Mother Sit And Hear An Infant Groan, An Infant Fear? No, No! Never Can It Be! Never, Never Can It Be!