For Science, God Is Simply

Nothing Could Moderate, In The Bosom Of The Great English Middle Class, Their Passionate, Absorbing, Almost Blood-thirsty Clinging To Life.

Bald As The Bare Mountain Tops Are Bald, With A Baldness Full Of Grandeur.

Joy Comes And Goes, Hope Ebbs And Flows Like The Wave; Change Doth Unknit The Tranquil Strength Of Men. Love Tends Life A Little Grace, A Few Sad Smiles; And Then, Both Are Laid In One Cold Place, In The Grave.

Alas! Is Even Love Too Weak To Unlock The Heart, And Let It Speak?

But Often, In The World’s Most Crowded Streets, But Often, In The Din Of Strife, There Rises An Unspeakable Desire After The Knowledge Of Our Buried Life; A Thirst To Spend Our Fire And Restless Force In Tracking Out Our True, Original Course; A Longing To Inquire Into The Mystery Of This Heart Which Beats So Wild, So Deep In Us—to Know Whence Our Lives Come And Where They Go.