Each Man Must Create His Own System

Come O'er The Eastern Hills, And Let Our Winds Kiss Thy Perfumed Garments; Let Us Taste Thy Morn And Evening Breath; Scatter Thy Pearls Upon Our Love-sick Land That Mourns For Thee.

How Do You Know But Ev’ry Bird That Cuts The Airy Way, Is An Immense World Of Delight, Clos’d By Your Senses Five?

For The Eye Altering Alters All; The Senses Roll Themselves In Fear And The Flat Earth Becomes A Ball.

The Wrath Of The Lion Is The Wisdom Of God.

He Who Binds To Himself A Joy Does The Winged Life Destroy; But He Who Kisses The Joy As It Flies Lives In Eternity's Sun Rise.