Every Thing Possible To Be Believ'd Is

The Sick Rose O Rose, Thou Art Sick. The Invisible Worm That Flies In The Night In The Howling Storm Has Found Out Thy Bed Of Crimson Joy, And His Dark Secret Love Does Thy Life Destroy.

England! Awake! Awake! Awake! Jerusalem Thy Sister Calls! Why Wilt Thou Sleep The Sleep Of Death And Close Her From Thy Ancient Walls?

All Futurity Seems Teeming With Endless Destruction Never To Be Repelled; Desperate Remorse Swallows The Present In A Quenchless Rage.

Nothing Is Real Beyond Imaginative Patterns Men Make Of Reality.

He Who Binds To Himself A Joy Does The Winged Life Destroy; But He Who Kisses The Joy As It Flies Lives In Eternity's Sun Rise.