Here Pity Only Lives When It Is

He Loves But Little Who Can Say And Count In Words, How Much He Loves.

Hope Not Ever To See Heaven. I Come To Lead You To The Other Shore; Into The Eternal Darkness; Into Fire And Ice.

This Mountain Is So Formed That It Is Always Wearisome When One Begins The Ascent, But Becomes Easier The Higher One Climbs.

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

A Prayer May Chance To Rise From One Whose Heart Lives In The Grace Of God. A Prayer From Any Other Is Unheeded.