Still More Labyrinthine Buds The Rose.

Finds Progress, Man's Distinctive Mark Alone, Not God's, And Not The Beast's; God Is, They Are, Man Partly Is, And Wholly Hopes To Be.

No Thought Which Ever Stirred A Human Breast Should Be Untold.

How Strange Now, Looks The Life He Makes Us Lead; So Free We Seem, So Fettered Fast We Are!

It Was Roses, Roses, All The Way, With Myrtle Mixed In My Path Like Mad.

The Curious Crime, The Fine Felicity And Flower Of Wickedness.