Lose Who May-i Still Can Say, Those

The Rain Set Early In Tonight, The Sullen Wind Was Soon Awake, It Tore The Elm-tops Down For Spite, And Did Its Best To Vex The Lake: I Listened With Heart Fit To Break. When Glided In Porphyria; Straight She Shut The Cold Out And The Storm, And Kneeled And Made The Cheerless Grate Blaze Up And All The Cottage Warm.

Though Rome's Gross Yoke Drops Off, No More To Be Endured, Her Teaching Is Not So Obscured By Errors And Perversities, That No Truth Shines Athwart The Lies.

A Pretty Woman's Worth Some Pains To See, Nor Is She Spoiled, I Take It, If A Crown Completes The Forehead Pale And Tresses Pure.

God Is The Perfect Poet.

Art Remains The One Way Possible Of Speaking Truth.