Beauty Is Nature's Brag, And

Above The Smoke And Stir Of This Dim Spot Which Men Call Earth.

How Gladly Would I Meet Mortality, My Sentence, And Be Earth In Sensible! How Glad Would Lay Me Down, As In My Mother's Lap! There I Should Rest, And Sleep Secure.

Anon Out Of The Earth A Fabric Huge Rose, Like An Exhalation.

Did I Request Thee, Maker, From My Clay To Mould Me Man? Did I Solicit Thee From Darkness To Promote Me?

No Worthy Enterprise Can Be Done By Us Without Continual Plodding And Wearisomeness To Our Faint And Sensitive Abilities.