Wherever Books Are Burned, Human Beings Are

The Night Comes Stealing O'er Me, And Clouds Are On The Sea; While The Wavelets Rustle Before Me With A Mystical Melody.

Poverty Sits By The Cradle Of All Our Great Men And Rocks All Of Them To Manhood.

The Sea Appears All Golden. Beneath The Sun-lit Sky.

Wild, Dark Times Are Rumbling Toward Us, And The Prophet Who Wishes To Write A New Apocalypse Will Have To Invent Entirely New Beasts, And Beasts So Terrible That The Ancient Animal Symbols Of St. John Will Seem Like Cooing Doves And Cupids In Comparison.

Perfumes Are The Feelings Of Flowers.