The Spirit Breathes Upon The Word And

The Slaves Of Custom And Established Mode, With Pack-horse Constancy We Keep The Road Crooked Or Straight, Through Quags Or Thorny Dells, True To The Jingling Of Our Leader's Bells.

I Am Out Of Humanity's Reach.i Must Finish My Journey Alone,never Hear The Sweet Music Of Speech;i Start At The Sound Of My Own.

The Man To Solitude Accustom'd Long, Perceives In Everything That Lives A Tongue; Not Animals Alone, But Shrubs And Trees Have Speech For Him, And Understood With Ease, After Long Drought When Rains Abundant Fall, He Hears The Herbs And Flowers Rejoicing All.

Still Ending, And Beginning Still.

Religion, Richest Favor Of The Skies.