"... An algebra of signs, a scheme of sense,
A symbol language without depth or wings,
A power to handle deftly outward things
Are our scant earnings of intelligence."
"...Ourselves incapable to build our fate
Only as actors speak and strut our parts
Until the piece is done and we pass off
Into a brighter Time and subtler Space."
"Inscrutable work the cosmic agencies.
Only the fringe of a wide surge we see;
Our instruments have not that greater light,
Our will tunes not with the eternal Will,
Our heart’s sight is too blind and passionate."
What points ascending Nature to her goal?
’Tis not man’s lame transcribing intellect
With its carved figures rigid and erect
But the far subtle vision of his soul..."