But If, As Morning Rises, Dreams Are

Lost Are We, And Are Only So Far Punished, That Without Hope We Live On In Desire.

All Of Nature Is God's Art.

He Loves But Little Who Can Say And Count In Words, How Much He Loves.

O You Proud Christians, Wretched Souls And Small,/ Who By The Dim Lights Of Your Twisted Minds/ Believe You Prosper Even As You Fall,/ Can You Not See That We Are Worms, Each One/ Born To Become The Angelic Butterfly/ That Flies Defenseless To The Judgement Throne?

The Human Race Finds Itself In A Better Situation When It Has The Higher Level Of Freedom.