A Wise Man Hears One Word And

Where The Good And The Bad And The Worst And The Best Have Gone To Their Eternal Rest.

There Was An Iciness, A Sinking, A Sickening Of The Heart - An Unredeemed Dreariness Of Thought Which No Goading Of The Imagination Could Torture Into Aught Of The Sublime

And I Fell Violently On My Face.

It Is A Happiness To Wonder; -- It Is A Happiness To Dream.

The Nose Of A Mob Is Its Imagination. By This, At Any Time, It Can Be Quietly Led.