Of All The Horrid, Hideous Notes Of

Shakespeare's Name, You May Depend On It, Stands Absurdly Too High And Will Go Down.

To Have Joy, One Must Share It.

Our Life Is Two Fold Sleep Hath Its Own World, A Boundary Between The Things Misnamed Death And Existence Sleep Hath Its Own World, And A Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.