All Are Of The Race

The Death-change Comes. Death Is Another Life. We Bow Our Heads At Going Out, We Think, And Enter Straight Another Golden Chamber Of The King's Larger Than This We Leave, And Lovelier. And Then In Shadowy Glimpses, Disconnect, The Story, Flower-like, Closes Thus Its Leaves. The Will Of God Is All In All. He Makes, Destroys, Remakes, For His Own Pleasure, All.

Poetry Is Itself A Thing Of God; He Made His Prophets Poets; And The More We Feel Of Poesie Do We Become Like God In Love And Power,-under-makers.

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.

We Must Not Pluck Death From The Maker's Hand.

The Value Of A Thought Cannot Be Told.