For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the leveling wind.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.

Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.

Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.