Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.

It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.

That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane

Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money.