O Mortal Men, Be Wary

As Little Flowers, Which The Chill Of Night Has Bent And Huddled, When The White Sun Strikes, Grow Straight And Open Fully On Their Stems, So Did I, Too, With My Exhausted Force.

He Loves But Little Who Can Say And Count In Words, How Much He Loves.

Be As A Tower Firmly Set; Shakes Not Its Top For Any Blast That Blows.

All Hope Abandon, Ye Who Enter Here!

Ah! Justice Of Our God! Who Else Could Stow Such Travails New And Pains As Met My Glance!