But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not

His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless, Dead, Unsceptred; And His Realmless Eyes Were Closed.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children. The Mighty Abstract Idea I Have Of Beauty In All Things Stifles The More Divided And Minute Domestic Happiness.

Conversation Is Not A Search After Knowledge, But An Endeavor At Effect.

Load Every Rift With Ore.

Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.