Thou Canst Not Touch The Freedom Of

But O Yet More Miserable! Myself My Sepulchre, A Moving Grave.

The Mind Is Its Own Place, And In Itself, Can Make Heaven Of Hell, And A Hell Of Heaven.

Man Hath His Daily Work Of Body Or Mind Appointed, Which Declares His Dignity, And The Regard Of Heav'n On All His Ways.

A Poet Soaring In The High Reason Of His Fancies, With His Garland And Singing Robes About Him.

Evil On Itself Shall Back Recoil.