All Work Of Man Is

Misery Which, Through Long Ages, Had No Spokesman, No Helper, Will Now Be Its Own Helper And Speak For Itself.

It Is The Feeling Of Injustice That Is Insupportable To All Men.

Also, What Mountains Of Dead Ashes, Wreck And Burnt Bones, Does Assiduous Pedantry Dig Up From The Past Time And Name It History.

It Is Part Of My Creed That The Only Poetry Is History, Could We Tell It Right.

That Great Mystery Of Time, Were There No Other; The Illimitable, Silent, Never-resting Thing Called Time, Rolling, Rushing On, Swift, Silent, Like An All-embracing Ocean Tide, On Which We And All The Universe Swim Like Exhalations, Like Apparitions Which Are, And Then Are Not: This Is Forever Very Literally A Miracle; A Thing To Strike Us Dumb,-for We Have No Word To Speak About It.