Fate Gave, What Chance Shall Not Control,

Nothing Could Moderate, In The Bosom Of The Great English Middle Class, Their Passionate, Absorbing, Almost Blood-thirsty Clinging To Life.

A Wanderer Is Man From His Birth. He Was Born In A Ship On The Breast Of The River Of Time.

Most Men In A Brazen Prison Live, Where, In The Sun's Hot Eye, With Heads Bent O'er Their Toil, They Languidly Their Lives To Some Unmeaning Taskwork Give, Dreaming Of Nought Beyond Their Prison-wall.

Nature, With Equal Mind, Sees All Her Sons At Play, Sees Man Control The Wind, The Wind Sweep Man Away.

On The Breast Of That Huge Mississippi Of Falsehood Called History, A Foam-bell More Or Less Is No Consequence.