Sad That Our Finest Aspiration, Our Freshest

I've Lived To Bury My Desires And See My Dreams Corrode With Rust Now All That's Left Are Fruitless Fires That Burn My Empty Heart To Dust. Struck By The Clouds Of Cruel Fate My Crown Of Summer Bloom Is Sere Alone And Sad, I Watch And Wait And Wonder If The End Is Near. As Conquered By The Last Cold Air When Winter Whistles In The Wind Alone Upon A Branch That's Bare A Trembling Leaf Is Left Behind.

Unrequited Love Is Not An Affront To Man But Raises Him.

It's A Lucky Man, A Very Lucky Man, Who Is Committed To What He Believes, Who Has Stifled Intellectual Detachment And Can Relax In The Luxury Of His Emotions - Like A Tipsy Traveller Resting For The Night At Wayside Inn.

In This, Our Age Of Infamy Man's Choice Is But To Be A Tyrant, Traitor, Prisoner: No Other Choice Has He.

A Deception That Elevates Us Is Dearer Than A Host Of Low Truths.