I Begin To Think That None Are

If We Tried To Sink The Past Beneath Our Feet, Be Sure The Future Would Not Stand.

The Essence Of All Beauty, I Call Love.

Tis Aye A Solemn Thing To Me To Look Upon A Babe That Sleeps-- Wearing In Its Spirit-deeps The Unrevealed Mystery Of Its Adam's Taint And Woe, Which, When They Revealed Lie, Will Not Let It Slumber So.

This Race Is Never Grateful: From The First, One Fills Their Cup At Supper With Pure Wine, Which Back They Give At Cross-time On A Sponge, In Bitter Vinegar.

O Rose, Who Dares To Name Thee? No Longer Roseate Now, Nor Soft, Nor Sweet, But Pale, And Hard, And Dry, As Stubblewheat, Kept Seven Years In A Drawer, Thy Titles Shame Thee.