He Who Shall Teach The Child To

In Your Own Bosom You Bear Your Heaven And Earth, And All You Behold, Though It Appears Without, It Is Within, In Your Imagination, Of Which This World Of Mortality Is But A Shadow.

Works Of Art Can Only Be Produc'd In Perfection Where The Man Is Either In Affluence Or Is Above The Care Of It.

Thus Men Forgot That All Deities Reside In The Human Breast.

All Futurity Seems Teeming With Endless Destruction Never To Be Repelled; Desperate Remorse Swallows The Present In A Quenchless Rage.

Thou Fair-hair'd Angel Of The Evening, Now, Whilst The Sun Rests On The Mountains, Light Thy Bright Torch Of Love; Thy Radiant Crown Put On, And Smile Upon Our Evening Bed!