Strange Thoughts Beget Strange Deeds.

All High Poetry Is Infinite; It Is As The First Acorn, Which Contained All Oaks Potentially.

For There Are Deeds Which Have No Form, Sufferings Which Have No Tongue.

Through The Sunset Of Hope, Like The Shapes Of A Dream, What Paradise Islands Of Glory Gleam!

Death Is The Veil Which Those Who Live Call Life; They Sleep, And It Is Lifted.

Nothing Of Him That Doth Fade But Doth Suffer A Sea-change Into Something Rich And Strange