A Poem In My Opinion, Is Opposed

As An Individual, I Myself Feel Impelled To Fancy ... A Limitless Succession Of Universes.... Each Exists, Apart And Independently, In The Bosom Of Its Proper And Particular God.

Even In The Grave, All Is Not Lost.

The Ninety And Nine Are With Dreams, Content But The Hope Of The World Made New, Is The Hundredth Man Who Is Grimly Bent On Making Those Dreams Come True.

Science Has Not Yet Taught Us If Madness Is Or Is Not The Sublimity Of The Intelligence.

Quoth The Raven, "nevermore.