Where Books Are Burned In The End

Don't Send A Poet To London.

If Thou Lookest On The Lime-leaf, Thou A Heart's Form Will Discover; Therefore Are The Lindens Ever Chosen Seats Of Each Fond Lover.

The Cloudlets Are Lazily Sailing O'er The Blue Atlantic Sea; And Mid The Twilight There Hovers A Shadowy Figure O'er Me.

That Was Only The Beginning - Where One Burns Books, One Will Finally Also Burn People.

Poverty Sits By The Cradle Of All Our Great Men And Rocks All Of Them To Manhood.