Poetry Is A Mirror Which Makes Beautiful

What! Alive, And So Bold, O Earth?

I Am Not Much Of A Hand At Love Songs, You See I Mingle Metaphysics With Even This, But Perhaps In This Age Of Philosophy That May Be Excused.

Power, Like A Desolating Pestilence, Pollutes Whatever It Touches.

Revenge Is The Naked Idol Of The Worship Of A Semi-barbarous Age.

As Long As Skies Are Blue, And Fields Are Green Evening Must Usher Night, Night Urge The Morrow, Month Follow Month With Woe, And Year Wake Year To Sorrow