Communism Means Barbarism.

Here Was A Type Of The True Elder Race, And One Of Plutarch's Men Talked With Us Face To Face.

Life Is The Jailer, Death The Angel Sent To Draw The Unwilling Bolts And Set Us Free.

Never Did Poesy Appear So Full Of Heaven To Me, As When I Saw How It Would Pierce Through Pride And Fear To The Lives Of Coarsest Men.

Joy Comes, Grief Goes, We Know Not How.

The Mind Can Weave Itself Warmly In The Cocoon Of Its Own Thoughts, And Dwell A Hermit Anywhere.