A Boundless Continent, Dark, Waste, And Wild,

For Liberty Hath A Sharp And Double Edge, Fit Only To Be Handled By Just And Virtuous Men; To Bad And Dissolute, It Becomes A Mischief Unwieldy In Their Own Hands.

Accuse Not Nature: She Hath Done Her Part; Do Thou But Thine.

And On The Tree Of Life, The Middle Tree And Highest There That Grew, Sat Like A Cormorant.

O Conscience, Into What Abyss Of Fears And Horrors Hast Thou Driven Me, Out Of Which I Find No Way, From Deep To Deeper Plunged.

What Am I Pondering, You Ask? So Help Me God, Immortality.