Thy Words Are Like A Cloud Of

The Young Moon Has Fed Her Exhausted Horn With The Sunset's Fire.

Hell Is A City Much Like London A Populous And Smoky City

Change Is Certain. Peace Is Followed By Disturbances; Departure Of Evil Men By Their Return. Such Recurrences Should Not Constitute Occasions For Sadness But Realities For Awareness, So That One May Be Happy In The Interim.

Of Planets, Struggling Fierce Towards Heaven's Free Wilderness.

A Poet Is A Nightingale, Who Sits In Darkness And Sings To Cheer Its Own Solitude With Sweet Sounds; His Auditors Are As Men Entranced By The Melody Of An Unseen Musician, Who Feel That They Are Moved And Softened, Yet Know Not Whence Or Why.