And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient,- comes, and lo! is gone, While Northern thought is slow and durable.
Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.
Men are not angels, neither are they brutes.
I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time.