See ye not, Courtesy is the true Alchemy, turning to gold all it touches and tries?
The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.
The man or country that fights priestcraft and priests is to my mind striking deeper for freedom than can be struck anywhere.
Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.
But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.
I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.