In The Midway Of This Our Mortal

O Mortal Men, Be Wary Of How Ye Judge.

No Man May Be So Cursed By Priest Or Pope But What The Eternal Love May Still Return While Any Thread Of Green Lives On In Hope.

When We Encountered A Band Of Souls Coming Along The Barrier, And Each Was Gazing At Us In The Evening People Gaze At One Another Under The New Moon

I Saw A Point That Shone With Light So Keen, The Eye That Sees It Cannot Bear Its Blazing; The Star That Is For Us The Smallest One Would Seem A Moon If Placed Beside This Point.

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.