Imagination Is The Air Of Mind.

It Matters Not How Long We Live But How.

The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave Walks Softly As Above A Grave.

See The Sun! God's Crest Upon His Azure Shield, The Heavens.

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.

Oh, Could We Lift The Future's Sable Shroud.