Money is the god of our time, and Rothschild is his prophet.

The beauteous eyes of the spring's fair night With comfort are downward gazing.

Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.

Perhaps already I am dead, And these perhaps are phantoms vain; - These motley phantasies that pass At night through my disordered brain. Perhaps with ancient heathen shapes, Old faded gods, this brain is full; Who, for their most unholy rites, Have chosen a dead poet's skull.

Atheism is the last word of theism

The cloudlets are lazily sailing O'er the blue Atlantic sea; And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o'er me.

Photography is a witness against the mistaken opinion that art is an imitation of nature.