Improvement Makes Strait Roads, But The Crooked

The Sick Rose O Rose, Thou Art Sick. The Invisible Worm That Flies In The Night In The Howling Storm Has Found Out Thy Bed Of Crimson Joy, And His Dark Secret Love Does Thy Life Destroy.

I Wander Thro' Each Charter'd Street, Near Where The Charter'd Thames Does Flow, And Mark In Every Face I Meet Marks Of Weakness, Marks Of Woe. In Every Cry Of Every Man, In Every Infant's Cry Of Fear, In Every Voice, In Every Ban, The Mind-forg'd Manacles I Hear. How The Chimney-sweeper's Cry Every Black'ning Church Appalls; And The Hapless Soldier's Sigh Runs In Blood Down Palace Walls. But Most Thro' Midnight Streets I Hear How The Youthful Harlot's Curse Blasts The New Born Infant's Tear, And Blights With Plagues The Marriage Hearse.

Those Who Restrain Their Desires, Do So Because Theirs Is Weak Enough To Be Restrained.

Mysteries Are Not To Be Solved. They Eye Goes Blind When It Only Wants To See Why.

Joys Impregnate. Sorrows Bring Forth.