The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave

Blest Is He Whose Heart Is The Home Of The Great Dead And Their Great Thoughts.

Fine Thoughts Are Wealth, For The Right Use Of Which Men Are And Ought To Be Accountable,-- If Not To Thee, To Those They Influence.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

Music Tells No Truths.

When I Forget That The Stars Shine In Air-- When I Forget That Beauty Is In Stars-- When I Forget That Love With Beauty Is-- Will I Forget Thee: Till Then All Things Else.