Count Art By Gold, And It Fetters

Music Is Not A Science Any More Than Poetry Is. It Is A Sublime Instinct, Like Genius Of All Kinds.

Women Hope That The Dead Love May Revive; But Men Know That Of All Dead Things None Are So Past Recall As A Dead Passion.

Fame! It Is The Flower Of A Day, That Dies When The Next Sun Rises.

The Philosopher Stands At His Desk In The Lecture Hall, And Demonstrates Away The Soul Of Man, And With Exact Thought Measures Out His Atoms And Resolves Him Back To Gas And Air. But The Revolutionary, Below In The Crowd, Hears, And Only Translates What He Hears Thus To His Brethren: 'let Us Drink While We May; Property Is Robbery; This Life Is All; Let Us Kill And Eat; There Is No God.

Death! It Is Rest To The Aged, It Is Oblivion To The Atheist, It Is Immortality To The Poet!