Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls; It Tolls For Thee

To Know And Feel All This And Not Have The Words To Express It Makes A Human A Grave Of His Own Thoughts.

The Phoenix Riddle Hath More Wit By Us, We Two Being One, Are It. So To One Neutral Thing Both Sexes Fit, We Die And Rise The Same, And Prove Mysterious By This Love.

Kind Pity Chokes My Spleen.

Nothing But Man Of All Envenomed Things, Doth Work Upon Itself, With Inborn Stings.