Miles above the Earth we know, Fancy's rocket roars. Below, Here and Now are needles which Sew a pattern black as pitch, Waiting for the rocket's light.
Every hand and every hour should be devoted to rescue the world from its insanity of guilt, and to assuage the pangs of human hearts with balm and anodyne. To pity distress is but human; to relieve it is Godlike.
