Death Opens Unknown Doors. It Is Most

Quinquireme Of Nineveh From Distant Ophir, Rowing Home To Haven In Sunny Palestine, With A Cargo Of Ivory, And Apes And Peacocks, Sandalwood, Cedarwood, And Sweet White Wine.

All Ye That Pass By! While We Least Think It He Prepares His Mate. Mate, And The King's Pawn Played, It Never Ceases, Though All The Earth Is Dust Of Taken Pieces.

The Days That Make Us Happy Make Us Wise

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

Heaven To Me's A Fair Blue Stretch Of Sky, Earth's Jest A Dusty Road.