He Mastered Whatever Was Not Worth The

O Visionary World, Condition Strange, Where Naught Abiding Is But Only Change.

The Child Is Not Mine As The First Was, I Cannot Sing It To Rest, I Cannot Lift It Up Fatherly And Bliss It Upon My Breast; Yet It Lies In My Little One's Cradle And Sits In My Little One's Chair, And The Light Of The Heaven She's Gone To Transfigures Its Golden Hair.

That Cause Is Strong Which Has, Not A Multitude, But One Strong Man Behind It.

Tis As Easy To Be Heroes As To Sit The Idle Slaves.

Life Is The Jailer, Death The Angel Sent To Draw The Unwilling Bolts And Set Us Free.