For Where The Instrument Of Intelligence Is

Here Let Dead Poetry Rise Once More To Life.

He Who Awaits The Call, But Sees The Need, Already Sets His Spirit To Refuse It.

I Presumed To Fix My Look On The Eternal Light So Long That I Consumed My Sight Thereon.

Love Kindled By Virtue Always Kindles Another, Provided That Its Flame Appear Outwardly.

O How Far Remov'd, Predestination! Is Thy Foot From Such As See Not The First Cause Entire: And Ye, O Mortal Men! Be Wary How Ye Judge: For We, Who See The Maker, Know Not Yet The Number Of The Chosen; And Esteem Such Scantiness Of Knowledge Our Delight: For All Good Is, In That Primal Good, Concentrate; And God's Will And Ours Are One.