Excerpt from The Glory of Mortality
What though blind chance creates and desolates, And wanton mars the beauty it creates!
Hat though this temple be but common clay, Built out of base and common elements! What though the woof whereon the soul is woven Into a web of forces delicate Be but a fabric whereon worms may feed! What though the Spirit, Aye! The very Soul Be but a subtle form of energy, Evolving through the long millenniums Toward perfection, only to be drawn Into one source of being and destruction!
What though our lives be but a moment of The little day allotted to our world.
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