As Poetry Is The Harmony Of Words,

Truth Is Never To Be Expected From Authors Whose Understanding Is Warped With Enthusiasm.

…so When The Last And Dreadful Hour This Crumbling Pageant Shall Devour, The Trumpet Shall Be Heard On High, The Dead Shall Live, The Living Die, And Music Shall Untune The Sky

Here Lies My Wife: Here Let Her Lie! Now She's At Rest, And So Am I.

God Never Made His Work For Man To Mend.

Words Are But Pictures Of Our Thoughts.