He Whose Face Gives No Light, Shall

The Most Sublime Act Is To Set Another Before You.

How Do You Know But Ev’ry Bird That Cuts The Airy Way, Is An Immense World Of Delight, Clos’d By Your Senses Five?

Every Mortal Loss Is An Immortal Gain.

I'm Sure This Jesus Will Not Do Either For Englishman Or Jew.

Ah, Sunflower, Weary Of Time, Who Countest The Steps Of The Sun, Seeking After That Sweet Golden Clime Where The Traveller's Journey Is Done; Where The Youth Pined Away With Desire And The Pale Virgin Shrouded In Snow Arise From Their Graves, And Aspire Where My Sunflower Wishes To Go.