My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My

Real Are The Dreams Of Gods, And Smoothly Pass Their Pleasures In A Long Immortal Dream.

This Grave Contains All That Was Mortal Of A Young English Poet Who On His Death Bed In The Bitterness Of His Heart At The Malicious Power Of His Enemies Desired These Words To Be Engraved On His Tomb Stone "here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water."

The Genius Of Shakespeare Was An Innate University.

Are There Not Thousands In The World Who Love Their Fellows Even To The Death, Who Feel The Giant Agony Of The World, And More, Like Slaves To Poor Humanity, Labor For Mortal Good?

To Bear All Naked Truths, And To Envisage Circumstance, All Calm, That Is The Top Of Sovereignty