Fire That's Closest Kept Burns Most Of

Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

O Tiger's Heart Wrapped In A Woman's Hide!

Where Every Something, Being Blent Together Turns To A Wild Of Nothing.

O, But They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony: Where Words Are Scarce, They Are Seldom Spent In Vain: For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain. He, That No More Must Say, Is Listened More Than They Whom Youth And Ease Have Taught To Gloze; More Are Men's Ends Marked, Than Their Lives Before: The Setting Sun, And Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last; Writ In Rememberance More Than Things Long Past

If Reasons Were As Plentiful As Blackberries, I Would Give No Man A Reason Upon Compulsion.