I Live, Which Is The Main Point.

The Night Comes Stealing O'er Me, And Clouds Are On The Sea; While The Wavelets Rustle Before Me With A Mystical Melody.

Thought Is Invisible Nature.

No Author Is A Man Of Genius To His Publisher.

The Beauteous Eyes Of The Spring's Fair Night With Comfort Are Downward Gazing.

Wherever They Burn Books They Will Also, In The End, Burn Human Beings.