Keep Us, Lord, So Awake In The

But He Who Loveliness Within Hath Found, All Outward Loathes, For He Who Color Loves, And Skin, Loves But Their Oldest Clothes.

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.

On A Huge Hill, Cragged, And Steep, Truth Stands, And Hee That Will Reach Her, About Must, And About Must Goo.

To Know And Feel All This And Not Have The Words To Express It Makes A Human A Grave Of His Own Thoughts.

Death Is An Ascension To A Better Library.