If Every Gnat That Flies Were An

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels, And Arise, Arise From Death, You Numberless Infinities Of Souls **** All Whom War, Dearth, Age, Agues, Tyrannies, Despair, Law, Chance, Hath Slain.

Thou Art Slave To Fate, Chance, Kings, And Desperate Men, And Dost With Poison, War, And Sickness Dwell, And Poppy, Or Charms, Can Make Us Sleep As Well, And Better Than Thy Stroke. Why Swell'st Thou Then?

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls; It Tolls For Thee

He That Desires To Print A Book, Should Much More Desire, To Be A Book.

Nature's Great Masterpiece, An Elephant; The Only Harmless Great Thing.