I have conversed with the spiritual Sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill
Little fly, thy summer's play My thoughtless hand has brushed away. Am not I a fly like thee? Or art not thou a man like me? For I dance and drink and sing, Till some blind hand shall brush my wing!
As a man is, so he sees.
Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.
Every harlot was a virgin once.
To be an Error and to be Cast out is a part of God's Design.