All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount: Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained…

Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be: Time's …

Let us cry, 'All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!'

I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.

Pity for him who one day looks upon his inward sphinx and questions it. He is lost.

So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone, I with my secret self held communing of mine own.