Folks Never Understand The Folks They Hate.

It May Be Glorious To Write Thoughts That Shall Glad The Two Or Three High Souls, Like Those Far Stars That Come In Sight Once In A Century.

In The Ocean Of Baseness, The Deeper We Get, The Easier The Sinking.

They Talk About Their Pilgrim Blood, Their Birthright High And Holy! A Mountain-stream That Ends In Mud Thinks Is Melancholy.

The Purely Great Whose Soul No Siren Passion Could Unsphere, Thou Nameless, Now A Power And Mixed With Fate.

Fate Loves Best Such Syllables As Are Sweet And Sonorous On The Tongue.