The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver.

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

The white flower of a blameless life.

In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.