What Men Call Accident Is God's Own

America, Thou Half-brother Of The World; With Something Good And Bad Of Every Land.

Look On The Bee Upon The Wing 'mong Flowers; How Brave, How Bright His Life! Then Mark, Him Hiv'd, Cramp'd, Cringing In His Self-built, Social Cell, Thus It Is In The World-hive; Most Where Men Lie Deep In Cities As In Drifts.

I Run The Gauntlet Of A File Of Doubts, Each One Of Which Down Hurls Me To The Ground.

Ask Not Of Me, Love, What Is Love? Ask What Is Good Of God Above; Ask Of The Great Sun What Is Light; Ask What Is Darkness Of The Night; Ask Sin Of What May Be Forgiven; Ask What Is Happiness Of Heaven; Ask What Is Folly Of The Crowd; Ask What Is Fashion Of The Shroud; Ask What Is Sweetness Of Thy Kiss; Ask Of Thyself What Beauty Is.

Blest Is He Whose Heart Is The Home Of The Great Dead And Their Great Thoughts.