Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.