Extreme Fear Can Neither Fight

That Is The Way To Lay The City Flat, To Bring The Roof To The Foundation, And Bury All, Which Yet Distinctly Ranges, In Heaps And Piles Of Ruin.

The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.