Gratitude Is Heaven Itself; There Could Be

Like A Fiend In A Cloud, With Howling Woe, After Night I Do Crowd, And With Night Will Go; I Turn My Back To The East, From Whence Comforts Have Increased; For Light Doth Seize My Brain With Frantic Pain.

In Seed Time Learn, In Harvest Teach, In Winter Enjoy.

I Was In A Printing-house In Hell, And Saw The Method In Which Knowledge Is Transmitted From Generation To Generation.

My Mother Bore Me In The Southern Wild, And I Am Black, But O! My Soul Is White; White As An Angel Is The English Child, But I Am Black As If Bereaved Of Light.

I Cry, Love! Love! Love! Happy Happy Love! Free As The Mountain Wind!