The Meaning Of Good And Bad, Of

I--this Thought Which Is Called I--is The Mould Into Which The World Is Poured Like Melted Wax.

A Bullet Had Found Him, His Blood Ran Out As He Cried. No Money Could Save Him, So He Laid Down And Died. Ooh, What A Lucky Man He Was.

Friendship, Like The Immortality Of The Soul, Is Too Good To Be Believed.

The Soul Lets No Man Go Without Some Visitations And Holy-days Of A Diviner Presence.

The Charming Landscape Which I Saw This Morning Is Indubitably Made Up Of Some Twenty Or Thirty Farms. Miller Owns This Field, Locke That, And Manning The Woodland Beyond. But None Of Them Owns The Landscape. There Is Property In The Horizon Which No Man Has But He Whose Eye Can Integrate All Parts, That Is, The Poet. This Is The Best Part Of These Men's Farms, Yet To This Their Warranty-deeds Give No Title.