Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ

Are There Not Thousands In The World Who Love Their Fellows Even To The Death, Who Feel The Giant Agony Of The World, And More, Like Slaves To Poor Humanity, Labor For Mortal Good?

The Imagination Of A Boy Is Healthy, And The Mature Imagination Of A Man Is Healthy; But There Is A Space Of Life Between, In Which The Soul Is In A Ferment, The Character Undecided, The Way Of Life Uncertain, The Ambition Thick-sighted: Thence Proceeds Mawkishness.

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.

Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out Of Thought As Doth Eternity.