Great Talent Has Always A Little Madness

The Tear, Down Childhood's Cheek That Flows, Is Like The Dewdrop On The Rose; When Next The Summer Breeze Comes By And Waves The Bush, The Flower Is Dry.

But Search The Land Of Living Men, Where Wilt Thou Find Their Like Again?

That Day Of Wrath, That Dreadful Day. When Heaven And Earth Shall Pass Away.

Chess Is A Sad Waste Of Brains.

He Turn'd His Charger As He Spake, Upon The River Shore, He Gave His Bridle Reins A Shake, Said, "adieu For Evermore, My Love, And Adieu For Evermore."