No Thought Which Ever Stirred A Human

But God Has A Few Of Us To Whom He Whispers In The Ear; The Rest May Reason And Welcome; 'tis We Musicians Know.

Over My Head His Arm He Flung, Against The World.

Ambition Is Not What Man Does... But What Man Would Do.

For Sudden The Worst Turns The Best To The Brave, The Black Minute's At End, And The Elements' Rage, The Fiend Voices That Rave, Shall Dwindle, Shall Blend, Shall Change, Shall Become First A Peace Out Of Pain, Then A Light, Then Thy Breast, O Thou Soul Of My Soul! I Shall Clasp Thee Again, And With God Be The Rest!

Poetry, Like Love, Is Something We Never Truly Say Goodbye To.