The Truth Must Dazzle Gradually Or Every

We Both Believe, And Disbelieve A Hundred Times An Hour, Which Keeps Believing Nimble.

The Sweets Of Pillage Can Be Known To No One But The Thief, Compassion For Integrity Is His Divinest Grief.

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is, To Meet An Antique Book, In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege I Think.

Life Is A Spell So Exquisite That Everything Conspires To Break It.

When We Think Of His Lone Effort To Live And Its Bleak Reward, The Mind Turns To The Myth "for His Mercy Endureth Forever," With Confiding Revulsion.