A Face To Lose Youth

God Is The Perfect Poet, Who In His Person Acts His Own Creations.

I See My Way As Birds Their Trackless Way. I Shall Arrive,- What Time, What Circuit First, I Ask Not; But Unless God Send His Hail Or Blinding Fire-balls, Sleet Or Stifling Snow, In Some Time, His Good Time, I Shall Arrive: He Guides Me And The Bird. In His Good Time.

On The Earth The Broken Arcs; In The Heaven A Perfect Round.

When The Liquor's Out, Why Clink The Cannikin?

Earth Is Crammed With Heavens.