What Men Call Accident Is God's Own

He Hath No Power That Hath Not Power To Use.

For As Nightingales Do Upon Glow-worms Feed, So Poets Live Upon The Living Light.

Naught But God Can Satisfy The Soul.

And These Are Joys, Like Beauty, But Skin Deep.

The Death-change Comes. Death Is Another Life. We Bow Our Heads At Going Out, We Think, And Enter Straight Another Golden Chamber Of The King's Larger Than This We Leave, And Lovelier. And Then In Shadowy Glimpses, Disconnect, The Story, Flower-like, Closes Thus Its Leaves. The Will Of God Is All In All. He Makes, Destroys, Remakes, For His Own Pleasure, All.