Armenian Is The Language To Speak With

Many Are Poets, But Without The Name;for What Is Poesy But To Createfrom Overfeeling Good Or Ill; And Aimat An External Life Beyond Our Fate,and Be The New Prometheus Of New Men,bestowing Fire From Heaven, And Then, Too Late,finding The Pleasure Given Repaid With Pain

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.

There Is No Passion, More Spectral Or Fantastical Than Hate, Not Even Its Opposite, Love, So Peoples Air, With Phantoms, As This Madness Of The Heart.

Egypt! From Whose All Dateless Tombs Arose Forgotten Pharaohs From Their Long Repose, And Shook Within Their Pyramids To Hear A New Cambyses Thundering In Their Ear; While The Dark Shades Of Forty Ages Stood Like Startled Giants By Nile's Famous Flood.

For The Angel Of Death Spread His Wings On The Blast, And Breathed In The Face Of The Foe As He Passed; And The Eyes Of The Sleepers Waxed Deadly And Chill, And Their Hearts But Once Heaved, And For Ever Grew Still!