(This is curious and may not be realized immediately, but
it must be realized,
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with
the rest,
And that the universe does.)

Where has fail'd a perfect return indiffrent of lies or
the truth ?
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in he
spirit of man? or in the meat and blood?

Meditating among liars and retreating sternly into myself,
I see that there are really no liars or lies after all,
And that nothing fails its perfact return, and that what
are called lies are perfect returns,
And that each thing exactly represents itself and what has
preceded it,
And that the truth includes all, and is compact just as
much as space is compact,
And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of
the truth - but that all is truth without exception;
And henceforth I will go celebrate any thing I see or am,
And sing and laugh and deny nothing

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then't is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half inpair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!