Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

Alas, Regardless Of Their Doom, The Little Victims Play! No Sense Have They Of Ills To Come Nor Care Beyond Today.

Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words That Burn.

E'en From The Tomb The Voice Of Nature Cries, E'en In Our Ashes Live Their Wonted Fires.

Full Many A Gem Of Purest Ray Serene, The Dark Unfathomed Caves Of Ocean Bear.