There Is No Place In Which To

What Matters Death, If Freedom Be Not Dead? No Flags Are Fair, If Freedom's Flag Be Furled. Who Fights For Freedom, Goes With Joyful Tread To Meet The Fires Of Hell Against Him Hurled.

Poems Are Made By Fools Like Me, But Only God Can Make A Tree

The Only Reason A Road Is Good As Every Wanderer Knows / Is Just Because Of The Homes, The Homes, The Homes To Which One Goes

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.

I Suppose I Passed It A Hundred Times, But I Always Stop For A Minute. And Look At The House, The Tragic House, The House With Nobody In It.