Oh Who Can Tell, Save He Whose

Many Are Poets, But Without The Name;for What Is Poesy But To Createfrom Overfeeling Good Or Ill; And Aimat An External Life Beyond Our Fate,and Be The New Prometheus Of New Men,bestowing Fire From Heaven, And Then, Too Late,finding The Pleasure Given Repaid With Pain

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

The Waves Were Dead; The Tides Were In Their Grave, The Moon, Their Mistress, Had Expir'd Before; The Winds Were Wither'd In The Stagnant Air, And The Clouds Perish'd; Darkness Had No Need Of Aid From Them-she Was The Universe.

A Small Drop Of Ink Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions... Think.

Men Think Highly Of Those Who Rise Rapidly In The World; Whereas Nothing Rises Quicker Than Dust, Straw, And Feathers.