The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

The Days Of Peace And Slumberous Calm Are Fled.

A Poet Is The Most Unpoetical Of Anything In Existence; Because He Has No Identity He Is Continually Informing And Filling Some Other Body.

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?

Its Better To Lose Your Ego To The One You Love Than To Lose The One You Love To Your Ego

Alas! When Passion Is Both Meek And Wild!