Of Love, That Fairest Joys Give Most

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?

Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water.

For Axioms In Philosophy Are Not Axioms Until They Are Proved Upon Our Pulses.

We Have Woven A Web, You And I, Attached To This World But A Separate World Of Our Own Invention.