As We To The Brutes, Poets Are

That Rarest Gift To Beauty, Common Sense!

Darker Grows The Valley, More And More Forgetting: So Were It With Me If Forgetting Could Be Willed. Tell The Grassy Hollow That Holds The Bubbling Well-spring, Tell It To Forget The Source That Keeps It Filled.

Prepare, You Lovers, To Know Love A Thing Of Moods: Not Like Hard Life, Of Laws.

Chance Works For Us When We Are Good Captains.

In Tragic Life, God Wot, No Villain Need Be! Passions Spin The Plot: We Are Betrayed By What Is False Within.