We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

My Slumbers--if I Slumber--are Not Sleep, But A Continuance Of Enduring Thought, Which Then I Can Resist Not: In My Heart There Is A Vigil, And These Eyes But Close To Look Within; And Yet I Live, And Bear The Aspect And The Form Of Breathing Men.

I Had A Dream, Which Was Not At All A Dream.

Muse Of The Many Twinkling Feet, Whose Charms Are Now Extending Up From Legs To Arms.

Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.