Manhattan’s streets I saunter’d pondering, On Time, Space, Reality—on such as these, and abreast with them Prudence.
The last explanation always remains to be made about prudence, Little and large alike drop quietly aside from the prudence that suits immortality.
The soul is of itself, All verges to it, all has reference to what ensues, All that a person does, says, thinks, is of consequence, Not a move can a man or woman make, that affects him or her in a day, month, any part of the direct lifetime, or the hour of death, But the same affects him or her onward afterward through the indirect lifetime.
The indirect is just as much as the direct, The spirit receives from the body just as much as it gives to the body, if not more.
Till we saturate time and eras, that the men and women of races, ages to come, may prove brethren and lovers as we are.