Pity Would Be No More, If We

Art Is The Tree Of Life. Science Is The Tree Of Death.

The Vision Of Christ That Thou Dost See, Is My Vision's Greatest Enemy. Thine Is The Friend Of All Mankind, Mine Speaks In Parables To The Blind. Thine Loves The Same World That Mine Hates, Thy Heaven-doors Are My Hell Gates.

What Seems To Be, Is, To Those To Whom It Seems To Be, And Is Productive Of The Most Dreadful Consequences To Those To Whom It Seems To Be, Even Of Torments, Despair, Eternal Death.

The Moon, Like A Flower In Heaven's High Bower, With Silent Delight Sits And Smiles On The Night.

Think Not Thou Canst Sigh A Sigh And Thy Maker Is Not By; Think Not Thou Canst Weep A Tear And Thy Maker Is Not Near.