The Devil's Most Devilish When

Think, In Mounting Higher, The Angels Would Press On Us, And Aspire To Drop Some Golden Orb Of Perfect Song Into Our Deep, Dear Silence.

There Shakespeare, On Whose Forehead Climb The Crowns O' The World; Oh, Eyes Sublime With Tears And Laughter For All Time!

O Brave Poets, Keep Back Nothing; Nor Mix Falsehood With The Whole! Look Up Godward! Speak The Truth In Worthy Song From Earnest Soul! Hold, In High Poetic Duty, Truest Truth The Fairest Beauty.

The Man, Most Man, Works Best For Men, And, If Most Men Indeed, He Gets His Manhood Plainest From His Soul: While, Obviously, This Stringent Soul Itself Obeys Our Old Rules Of Development; The Spirit Ever Witnessing In Ours, And Love, The Soul Of Soul, Within The Soul, Evolving It Sublimely.

We Have Hearts Within, Warm, Live, Improvident, Indecent Hearts.