With Our Short Sight We Affect To

Poor Conceited Humanity! Interpreters Of God Indeed.

It's All A Farce, - These Tales They Tell About The Breezes Sighing, And Moans Astir O'er Field And Dell, Because The Year Is Dying.

A Song Fluttered Down In The Form Of A Dove, And It Bore Me A Message, The One Word-love!

Oh, How With More Than Dreams The Soul Is Torn, Ere Sleep Comes Down To Soothe The Weary Eyes.

People Are Taking It For Granted That [the Negro] Ought Not To Work With His Head. And It Is So Easy For These People Among Whom We Are Living To Believe This; It Flatters And Satisfies Their Self-complacency.