As The Moon's Fair Image Quaketh In

Perhaps Already I Am Dead, And These Perhaps Are Phantoms Vain; - These Motley Phantasies That Pass At Night Through My Disordered Brain. Perhaps With Ancient Heathen Shapes, Old Faded Gods, This Brain Is Full; Who, For Their Most Unholy Rites, Have Chosen A Dead Poet's Skull.

The Swan, Like The Soul Of The Poet, By The Dull World Is Ill Understood.

Christ Rode On An Ass, But Now Asses Ride On Christ.

If Thou Lookest On The Lime-leaf, Thou A Heart's Form Will Discover; Therefore Are The Lindens Ever Chosen Seats Of Each Fond Lover.

In Politics, As In Life, We Must Above All Things Wish Only For The Attainable.