Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed,

To Know And Feel All This And Not Have The Words To Express It Makes A Human A Grave Of His Own Thoughts.

'tis The Year's Midnight, And It Is The Day's.

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

We Are All Conceived In Close Prison; In Our Mothers Wombs, We Are Close Prisoners All; When We Are Born, We Are Born But To The Liberty Of The House; Prisoners Still, Though Within Larger Walls; And Then All Our Life Is But A Going Out To The Place Of Execution, To Death.

Our Critical Day Is Not The Very Day Of Our Death; But The Whole Course Of Our Life.