In Your Own Bosom You Bear Your

Nothing Is Real Beyond Imaginative Patterns Men Make Of Reality.

Do What You Will This Life's A Fiction, And Is Made Up Of Contradiction.

If The Doors Of Perception Were Cleansed Everything Would Appear To Man As It Is, Infinite.

I Wander Thro' Each Charter'd Street, Near Where The Charter'd Thames Does Flow, And Mark In Every Face I Meet Marks Of Weakness, Marks Of Woe. In Every Cry Of Every Man, In Every Infant's Cry Of Fear, In Every Voice, In Every Ban, The Mind-forg'd Manacles I Hear. How The Chimney-sweeper's Cry Every Black'ning Church Appalls; And The Hapless Soldier's Sigh Runs In Blood Down Palace Walls. But Most Thro' Midnight Streets I Hear How The Youthful Harlot's Curse Blasts The New Born Infant's Tear, And Blights With Plagues The Marriage Hearse.

As A Man Is, So He Sees.