For there no yew nor cypress spread their glom But roses blossom'd each rustic tomb.

Beauty's witching sway is now to me a star that's fallen-a dream that's passed away.

Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name.

For there no yew nor cypress spread their glom But roses blossom'd each rustic tomb.

Your belief systems limit your reality to a sub-set of the solution space that does not contain the answer.

Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save.

Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.