We Mortals Cross The Ocean Of This

And I Have Written Three Books On The Soul, Proving Absurd All Written Hitherto, And Putting Us To Ignorance Again.

Oh, The Little More, And How Much It Is! And The Little Less, And What Worlds Away.

If Thou Tastest A Crust Of Bread, Thou Tastest All The Stars And All The Heavens.

Sorrow, The Heart Must Bear, Sits In The Home Of Each, Conspicuous There. Many A Circumstance, At Least, Touches The Very Breast. For Those Whom Any Sent Away,--he Knows: And In The Live Man's Stead, Armor And Ashes Reach The House Of Each.

Let Friend Trust Friends, And Love Demand Love's Like.