A Fool May Talk, But A Wise

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

Glow-worms On The Ground Are Moving, As If In The Torch-dance Circling.

I Have Smelt All The Aromas There Are In The Fragrant Kitchen They Call Earth; And What We Can Enjoy In This Life, I Surely Have Enjoyed Just Like A Lord!

Perhaps Already I Am Dead, And These Perhaps Are Phantoms Vain; - These Motley Phantasies That Pass At Night Through My Disordered Brain. Perhaps With Ancient Heathen Shapes, Old Faded Gods, This Brain Is Full; Who, For Their Most Unholy Rites, Have Chosen A Dead Poet's Skull.

All Special Charters Of Freedom Must Be Abrogated Where The Universal Law Of Freedom Is To Flourish.