Years Steal Fire From The Mind As

If I Am Fool, It Is, At Least, A Doubting One; And I Envy No One The Certainty Of His Self-approved Wisdom.

Mont Blanc Is The Monarch Of Mountains; They Crown'd Him Long Ago On A Throne Of Rocks, In A Robe Of Clouds, With A Diadem Of Snow.

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

There Is, In Fact, No Law Or Government At All; And It Is Wonderful How Well Things Go On Without Them.

I Stood Among Them, But Not Of Them: In A Shroud Of Thoughts Which Were Not Their Thoughts.