Such praise, but these scenes are texts of beauty!
There's no painting half so alluring
Nor any depiction by novelist Faulkner
Can array the soul of God without words.
But, why must these things become a creepy dust,
laden with fears, crumbled with tears,
withered frames that are rivets of pain,
A conscience without consciousness of fear.
But, thus, is the formation of such a mental state
in minds that mate,
And this very earth buffets these endearments in
accordance to a given faith:
This invalidism of beauty lies within
And corrugates the soul:
The tentacles of mankind become a medium of love
And Christianity is increased two-hundred fold:
The dogmas of trees contain the wisdom of God
But how many men understand?