If You Begin The Day With A

A Noble Craft, But Somehow A Most Melancholy! All Noble Things Are Touched With That.

All Wars Are Boyish, And Are Fought By Boys, The Champions And Enthusiasts Of The State: Turbid Ardors And Vain Joys Not Barrenly Abate-- Stimulants To The Power Mature, Preparatives Of Fate.

The Eyes Are The Gateway To The Soul.

To The Last, I Grapple With Thee; From Hell's Heart, I Stab At Thee; For Hate's Sake, I Spit My Last Breath At Thee.

Silence Is The Only Voice Of Our God.