I am weary of your quarrels, Weary of your wars and bloodshed, Weary of your prayers for vengeance, Of your wranglings and dissensions

Art is the child of Nature.

Stars of earth, these golden flowers; emblems of our own great resurrection; emblems of the bright and better land.

Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.

The smoking flax before it burst to flame Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed.

If we could read the secret history of our enemies.

Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.