When Night Hath Set Her

Blessings Star Forth Forever; But A Curse Is Like A Cloud, It Passes.

All Are Of The Race Of God, And Have In Themselves Good.

The World Is A Great Poem, And The World's The Words It Is Writ In, And We Souls The Thoughts.

A Poet Not In Love Is Out At Sea; He Must Have A Lay-figure.

Could We But Think With The Intensity We Love With, We Might Do Great Things.