Not at all similar are the race of the immortal gods and the race of men who walk upon the earth.

I am a part of all that I have met. Yet, experience is an arch wherethro gleams that untravl'd world whose margin fades forever and forever when I move.

Whatever day Makes man a slave, takes half his worth away.

And here I am using my own lungs like a sucker.

Have patience, heart.

There will be killing till the score is paid.

There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.