Tis Aye A Solemn Thing To Me

Unless You Can Muse In A Crowd All Day On The Absent Face That Fixed You; Unless You Can Love, As The Angels May, With The Breadth Of Heaven Betwixt You; Unless You Can Dream That His Faith Is Fast, Through Behoving And Unbehoving; Unless You Can Die When The Dream Is Past — Oh, Never Call It Loving!

My Future Will Not Copy My Fair Past, I Wrote That Once. And, Thinking At My Side My Ministering Life-angel Justified The Word By His Appealing Look Upcast To The White Throne Of God.

What Is Genius But The Power Of Expressing A New Individuality?

God Himself Is The Best Poet, And The Real Is His Song.

Knowledge By Suffering Entereth, And Life Is Perfected By Death.