My Altars Are The Mountains And The

Accursed Be The City Where The Laws Would Stifle Nature's!

But 'why Then Publish?' There Are No Rewards Of Fame Or Profit When The World Grows Weary. I Ask In Turn Why Do You Play At Cards? Why Drink? Why Read? To Make Some Hour Less Dreary. It Occupies Me To Turn Back Regards On What I've Seen Or Pondered, Sad Or Cheery, And What I Write I Cast Upon The Stream To Swim Or Sink. I Have Had At Least My Dream.

Between Two Worlds Life Hovers Like A Star, Twixt Night And Morn, Upon The Horizon's Verge.

Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication.

He Who Is Only Just Is Cruel; Who Upon The Earth Would Live Were All Judged Justly?