In Argument With Men A

Thick As Autumnal Leaves That Strow The Brooks In Vallombrosa, Where Th' Etrurian Shades High Over-arch'd Imbower.

Angels Contented With Their Face In Heaven, Seek Not The Praise Of Men.

Untwisting All The Chains That Tie The Hidden Soul Of Harmony.

Look Homeward, Angel, Now, And Melt With Ruth.

By Labor And Intent Study (which I Take To Be My Portion In This Life), Joined With The Strong Propensity Of Nature, I Might Perhaps Leave Something So Written To After-times, As They Should Not Willingly Let It Die.