Words Are The Motes Of Thought, And

As The Master So The Valet.

Corruption Springs From Light: 'tis One Same Power Creates, Preserves, Destroys; Matter Whereon It Works, On E'er Self-transmutative Form, Common To Now The Living, Now The Dead.

Man Is One; And He Hath One Great Heart. It Is Thus We Feel, With A Gigantic Throb Athwart The Sea, Each Other's Rights And Wrongs; Thus Are We Men.

The Ground Of All Great Thoughts Is Sadness.

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