I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.

Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.

Man's word is God in man.