The Religion Of One Age Is The

Commerce Is Of Trivial Import; Love, Faith, Truth Of Character, The Aspiration Of Man, These Are Sacred.

Good And Bad Are But Names Very Readily Transferable To That Or This.

Excite The Soul, And The Weather And The Town And Your Condition In The World All Disappear; The World Itself Loses Its Solidity, Nothing Remains But The Soul And The Divine Presence In Which It Lives.

If With Love Thy Heart Has Burned; If Thy Love Is Unreturned; Hide Thy Grief Within Thy Breast, Though It Tear Thee Unexpressed; For When Love Has Once Departed From The Eyes Of The False-hearted, And One By One Has Torn Off Quite The Bandages Of Purple Light; Though Thou Wert The Loveliest Form The Soul Had Ever Dressed, Thou Shalt Seem, In Each Reply, A Vixen To His Altered Eye; Thy Softest Pleadings Seem Too Bold, Thy Praying Lute Will Seem To Scold; Though Thou Kept The Straightest Road, Yet Thou Errest Far And Broad.

Rings And Jewels Are Not Gifts, But Apologies For Gifts. The Only Gift Is A Portion Of Thyself. Thou Must Bleed For Me. Therefore The Poet Brings His Poem; The Shepherd, His Lamb; The Farmer, Corn; The Miner, A Stone; The Painter, His Picture; The Girl, A Handkerchief Of Her Own Sewing.