For The Sin They Do By Two

Cities And Thrones And Powers Stand In Time's Eye, Almost As Long As Flowers, Which Daily Die

As I Pass Through My Incarnations In Every Age And Race, I Make My Proper Prostrations To The Gods Of The Market-place. Peering Through Reverent Fingers I Watch Them Flourish And Fall, And The Gods Of The Copybook Headings, I Notice, Outlast Them All.

One Learns More From A Good Scholar In A Rage Than From A Score Of Lucid And Laborious Drudges.

The Wild Hawk To The Wind-swept Sky The Deer To The Wholesome Wold; And The Heart Of A Man To The Heart Of A Maid, As It Was In The Days Of Old.

I Have My Own Matches And Sulphur, And I'll Make My Own Hell.