The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.

Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,Whose truths electrify the sage.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest.

The only thing that is fundamental (real) is consciousness itself; all else is virtual- i.e., a result of an exchange of information within consciousness.

Beauty's witching sway is now to me a star that's fallen-a dream that's passed away.

To live in the hearts of others is not to die