Fools Are My Theme, Let Satire Be

Grief Is Fantastical, And Loves The Dead, And The Apparel Of The Grave.

With Flowing Tail And Flying Mane, Wide Nostrils Never Stretched By Pain, Mouth Bloodless To Bit Or Rein, And Feet That Iron Never Shod, And Flanks Unscar'd By Spur Or Rod, A Thousand Horses - The Wild - The Free - Like Waves That Follow O'er The Sea, Came Thickly Thundering On.

Curiosity Kills Itself; And Love Is Only Curiosity, As Is Proved By Its End.

For A Man To Become A Poet (witness Petrarch And Dante), He Must Be In Love, Or Miserable.

Now I Shall Go To Sleep. Goodnight.