Hail To Thee, Blithe Spirit!

And Priests Dare Babble Of A God Of Peace, Even Whilst Their Hands Are Red With Guiltless Blood, Murdering The While, Uprooting Every Germ Of Truth, Exterminating, Spoiling All, Making The Earth A Slaughter - House!

In The Infancy Of Society Every Author Is Necessarily A Poet

First Our Pleasures Die - And Then Our Hopes, And Then Our Fears - And When These Are Dead, The Debt Is Due Dust Claims Dust - And We Die Too.

One Nightingale In An Interfluous Wood Satiate The Hungry Dark With Melody.

O Heart, And Mind, And Thoughts! What Thing Do You Hope To Inherit In The Grave Below?