See How He Throws His Baited Lines

We Call Those Poets Who Are First To Mark, Through Earth's Dull Mist The Coming Of The Dawn, Who See In Twilight's Gloom The First Pale Spark, While Others Only Note That Day Is Gone.

Yes, Child Of Suffering, Thou May'st Well Be Sure He Who Ordained The Sabbath Loves The Poor!

Our Brains Are Seventy-year Clocks. The Angel Of Life Winds Them Up Once For All, Then Closes The Case, And Gives The Key Into The Hand Of The Angel Of The Resurrection.

A Man May Fulfill The Object Of His Existence By Asking A Question He Cannot Answer, And Attempting A Task He Cannot Achieve.

The Very Aim And End Of Our Institutions Is Just This: That We May Think What We Like And Say What We Think.