The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.

O Latest Born And Loveliest Vision Far Of All Olympus' Faded Hierarchy.

'tis The Witching Hour Of Night, Orbed Is The Moon And Bright. And The Stars They Glisten, Glisten, Seeming With Bright Eyes To Listen- For What Listen They?

We Must Repeat The Often Repeated Saying, That It Is Unworthy A Religious Man To View An Irreligious One Either With Alarm Or Aversion, Or With Any Other Feeling Than Regret And Hope And Brotherly Commiseration.

Why Employ Intelligent And Highly Paid Ambassadors And Then Go And Do Their Work For Them? You Don't Buy A Canary And Sing Yourself.