Sable-vested Night, Eldest Of Things.

A Poet Soaring In The High Reason Of His Fancies, With His Garland And Singing Robes About Him.

There Is No Truth Sure Enough To Justify Persecution.

What Call Thou Solitude? Is Not The Earth With Various Living Creatures, And The Air Replenished, And All These At Thy Command To Come And Play Before Thee?

For What Can War, But Endless War, Still Breed?

He That Has Light Within His Own Clear Breast May Sit In The Centre, And Enjoy Bright Day: But He That Hides A Dark Soul And Foul Thoughts Benighted Walks Under The Mid-day Sun; Himself His Own Dungeon.