Death, Thou Art Infinite; It Is Life

Naught But God Can Satisfy The Soul.

Obey Thy Genius, For A Minister It Is Unto The Throne Of Fate. Draw To Thy Soul, And Centralize The Rays Which Are Around Of The Divinity.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

Sorrow Is A Stone That Crushes A Single Bearer To The Ground, While Two Are Able To Carry It With Ease.

Where Imperfection Ceaseth, Heaven Begins.