The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint

How Glowing Guilt Exalts The Keen Delight!

Lend, Lend Your Wings! I Mount! I Fly! O Grave! Where Is Thy Victory? O Death! Where Is Thy Sting?

Lulled In The Countless Chambers Of The Brain, Our Thoughts Are Linked By Many A Hidden Chain; Awake But One, And In, What Myriads Rise!

A Man Of Business May Talk Of Philosophy; A Man Who Has None May Practice It.

Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.