Earth's Crammed With Heaven.

I Begin To Think That None Are So Bold As The Timid, When They Are Fairly Roused.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose Fire-hearts Sowed Our Furrows When The World Was Worthy Of Such Men.

Books Are Men Of Higher Stature.

Xi I Sang His Name Instead Of Song; Over And Over I Sang His Name: Backward And Forward I Sang It Along, With My Sweetest Notes, It Was Still The Same! I Sang It Low, That The Slave-girls Near Might Never Guess, From What They Could Hear, That All The Song Was A Name.

Behold Me! I Am Worthy Of Thy Loving, For I Love Thee!