Christianity Is Not A Theory Or Speculation,

Boys And Girls, And Women, That Would Groan To See A Child Pull Off An Insect's Leg, All Read Of War, The Best Amusement For Our Morning Meal.

Her Lips Were Red, Her Looks Were Free, Her Locks Were Yellow As Gold: Her Skin Was White As Leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-death Was She, Who Thicks Man's Blood With Cold.

The Poet Is The Man Made To Solve The Riddle Of The Universe Who Brings The Whole Soul Of Man Into Activity.

The Fancy Is Indeed No Other Than A Mode Of Memory Emancipated From The Order Of Time And Space.

We Ne'er Can Be Made Happy By Compulsion.