Nor Fame I Slight, Nor

Never Find Fault With The Absent.

The Hog That Ploughs Not, Not Obeys Thy Call, Lives On The Labours Of This Lord Of All.

The Soul, Uneasy And Confin'd From Home, Rests And Expatiates In A Life To Come.

Placed On This Isthmus Of A Middle State, A Being Darkly Wise And Rudely Great... He Hangs Between; In Doubt To Act Or Rest; In Doubt To Deem Himself A God, Or Beast; In Doubt His Mind Or Body To Prefer; Born To Die, And Reasoning But To Err.

Is Not Absence Death To Those Who Love?