Silent As Despairing Love, And Strong As

Little Fly, Thy Summer's Play My Thoughtless Hand Has Brushed Away. Am Not I A Fly Like Thee? Or Art Not Thou A Man Like Me? For I Dance And Drink And Sing, Till Some Blind Hand Shall Brush My Wing!

The Generations Of Men Run On In The Tide Of Time, But Leave Their Destined Lineaments Permanent For Ever And Ever.

Thou Art A Man God Is No More Thy Own Humanity Learn To Adore

Nothing Is Real Beyond Imaginative Patterns Men Make Of Reality.

The Lamb Misused Breeds Public Strife And Yet Forgives The Butcher's Knife.