Thou Paradise Of Exiles, Italy!

The Howl Of Self-interest Is Loud ... But The Heart Is Black Which Throbs Solely To Its Note.

All Spirits Are Enslaved Which Serve Things Evil

I Cannot Endure The Horror, The Evil, Which Comes To Self In Solitude.

I Wish No Living Thing To Suffer Pain.

Poetry Is A Sword Of Lightning, Ever Unsheathed, Which Consumes The Scabbard That Would Contain It.