But Oh The Heavy Change, Now Thou

And Pomp, And Feast, And Revelry, With Mask, And Antique Pageantry, Such Sights As Youthful Poets Dream On Summer Eves By Haunted Stream.

He Who Destroys A Good Book Kills Reason Itself.

And On The Tree Of Life, The Middle Tree And Highest There That Grew, Sat Like A Cormorant.

Meadows Trim With Daisies Pied, Shallow Brooks And Rivers Wide Towers And Battlements It Sees Bosom'd High In Tufted Trees, Where Perhaps Some Beauty Lies, The Cynosure Of Neighboring Eyes.

Evil, Be Thou My Good.