Death But Supplies The Oil For The

Remorse Weeps Tears Of Blood.

Poor Little Foal Of An Oppressed Race! I Love The Languid Patience Of Thy Face.

A Stately Pleasure-dome Decree.

Wherever You Find A Sentence Musically Worded, Of True Rhythm And Melody In The Words, There Is Something Deep And Good In The Meaning Too.

I Shall Attack Chemistry, Like A Shark.