The Sick Rose O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: "Pipe a song about a Lamb." So I piped with merry cheer; "Piper, pipe that song again." So I piped; he wept to hear.

The human mind cannot go beyond the gift of God, the Holy Ghost. To suppose that art can go beyond the finest specimens of art that are now in the world is not knowing what art is; it is being blind to the gifts of the spirit.

The Man who pretends to be a modest enquirer into the truth of a self-evident thing is a Knave.

Life delights in life.

Christ's crucifix shall be made an excuse for executing criminals.

The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.