God is the perfect poet, / Who in his person acts his own creations.

All service ranks the same with God: With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we; there is no last nor first

Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed, As God be thanked! I do not

Progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beasts': God is, they are, Man partly is and wholly hopes to be

I saw the spiders marching through the air,
Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day
In latter August when the hay
Came creaking to the barn. But where
The wind is westerly,
Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly
Into the apparitions of the sky,
They purpose nothing but their ease and die
Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea;

Triassic is he who don't believe in God of all creations.