Thought Precedes Action As Lighting

Oh, What Lies There Are In Kisses.

In Blissful Dream, In Silent Night, There Came To Me, With Magic Might, With Magic Might, My Own Sweet Love, Into My Little Room Above.

The Swan, Like The Soul Of The Poet, By The Dull World Is Ill Understood.

Twelve Dancings Are Dancing, And Taking No Rest, And Closely Their Hands Together Are Press'd; And Soon As A Dance Has Come To A Close, Another Begins, And Each Merrily Goes.

Where Books Are Burned In The End People Will Be Burned Too.