'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls.

All poetry is difficult to read - The sense of it anyhow.

Rejoice that man is hurled, From change to change unceasingly, His soul's wings never furled!

Imperfection means perfection hid.

White shall not neutralize the black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so; life's business being just the terrible choice.

All service ranks the same with God,- With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.

How good is life, the mere living!