Dear Common Flower, That Grow'st Beside The

No Sincere Desire Of Doing Good Need Make An Enemy Of A Single Human Being; That Philanthropy Has Surely A Flaw In It Which Cannot Sympathize With The Oppressor Equally As With The Oppressed.

Love Lives On, And Hath A Power To Bless When They Who Loved Are Hidden In The Grave.

And Blessed Are The Horny Hands Of Toil.

No Mud Can Soil Us But The Mud We Throw.

Death Is Delightful. Death Is Dawn, The Waking From A Weary Night Of Fevers Unto Truth And Light.