Joy And Woe Are Woven Fine.

I Must Create A System, Or Be Enslav'd By Another Man's.

He Who Shall Hurt The Little Wren Shall Never Be Beloved By Men.

If Others Had Not Been Foolish, We Should Be So.

How Sweet I Roamed From Field To Field, And Tasted All The Summer's Pride, Till I The Prince Of Love Beheld, Who In The Sunny Beams Did Glide!

O White-robed Angel, Guide My Timorous Hand To Write As On A Lofty Rock With Iron Pen The Words Of Truth, That All Who Pass May Read.