O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet,

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.

The Essence Of All Beauty, I Call Love, The Attribute, The Evidence, And End, The Consummation To The Inward Sense Of Beauty Apprehended From Without, I Still Call Love.

So Mothers Have God's License To Be Missed.

I Love Thee To The Depth And Breadth And Height My Soul Can Reach.

The Tyrant Should Take Heed To What He Doth, Since Every Victim-carrion Turns To Use, And Drives A Chariot, Like A God Made Wroth, Against Each Piled Injustice.