We Don't Like Flowers That

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

Impatience Is The Mark Of Independence, Not Of Bondage.

There Is A Great Amount Of Poetry In Unconscious Fastidiousness.

We Are What We Were At Birth, And Each Trait Has Remained In Conformity With Earth's And With Heaven's Logic: Be The Devil's Tool, Resort To Black Magic, None Can Diverge From The Ends Which Heaven Foreordained.

There Never Was A War That Was Not Inward; I Must Fight Till I Have Conquered In Myself What Causes War.