A Poet Not In Love Is Out

Men Might Be Better If We Better Deemed Of Them.

The Heart Is Its Own Fate.

The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave Walks Softly As Above A Grave.

True Faith Nor Biddeth Nor Abideth Form, The Bended Knee, The Eye Uplift; Is All Which Men Need Render; All Which God Can Bear. What To The Faith Are Forms? A Passing Speck, A Crow Upon The Sky.

Words Are The Motes Of Thought, And Nothing More.