We Are Led To Believe A Lie

Poetry Fettered, Fetters The Human Race. Nations Are Destroyed Or Flourish In Proportion As Their Poetry, Painting, And Music Are Destroyed Or Flourish.

I Have No Name: I Am But Two Days Old. What Shall I Call Thee? I Happy Am, Joy Is My Name. Sweet Joy Befall Thee!

But To Go To School In A Summer Morn, O! It Drives All Joy Away; Under A Cruel Eye Outworn, The Little Ones Spend The Day In Sighing And Dismay.

He Who Would Do Good To Another Must Do It In Minute Particulars: General Good Is The Plea Of The Scoundrel, Hypocrite, And Flatterer, For Art And Science Cannot Exist But In Minutely Organized Particulars.

The Man Who Never In His Mind & Thoughts Travel'd To Heaven Is No Artist.