What Is Death, So It

Our Life Is Two Fold Sleep Hath Its Own World, A Boundary Between The Things Misnamed Death And Existence Sleep Hath Its Own World, And A Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

I Die But First I Have Possessed, And Come What May, I Have Been Blessed.

This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real Is But A Heightening Of The Beau Ideal.

So The Struck Eagle, Stretch'd Upon The Plain, No More Through Rolling Clouds To Soar Again, View'd His Own Feather On The Fatal Dart, And Wing'd The Shaft That Quiver'd In His Heart.

Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.