I Am Out Of Humanity's Reach.

Habits Are Soon Assumed; But When We Strive To Strip Them Off, 'tis Being Flayed Alive.

When One That Holds Communion With The Skies Has Fill'd His Urn Where These Pure Waters Rise, And Once More Mingles With Us Meaner Things, 'tis E'en As If An Angel Shook His Wings.

Where Penury Is Felt The Thought Is Chain'd, And Sweet Colloquial Pleasures Are But Few.

For When Was Public Virtue To Be Found Where Private Was Not?

The Fall Of Waters And The Song Of Birds, And Hills That Echo To The Distant Berds, Are Luxuries Excelling All The Glare The World Can Boast, And Her Chief Favorites Share.