How Slight A Chance May Raise Or

When I Forget That The Stars Shine In Air-- When I Forget That Beauty Is In Stars-- When I Forget That Love With Beauty Is-- Will I Forget Thee: Till Then All Things Else.

Not A Single Path Of Thought I Tread, But That It Leads To God.

Death, Thou Art Infinite; It Is Life Is Little.

The Poet's Pen Is The True Divining Rod Which Trembles Towards The Inner Founts Of Feeling; Bringing To Light And Use, Else Hid From All, The Many Sweet Clear Sources Which We Have Of Good And Beauty In Our Own Deep Bosoms; And Marks The Variations Of All Mind As Does The Needle.

The Death-change Comes. Death Is Another Life. We Bow Our Heads At Going Out, We Think, And Enter Straight Another Golden Chamber Of The King's Larger Than This We Leave, And Lovelier. And Then In Shadowy Glimpses, Disconnect, The Story, Flower-like, Closes Thus Its Leaves. The Will Of God Is All In All. He Makes, Destroys, Remakes, For His Own Pleasure, All.