In Fact, Truth Cannot Be Communicated Until

Sing Again, With Your Dear Voice Revealing. A Tone Of Some World Far From Ours, Where Music And Moonlight And Feeling Are One.

Poetry Is A Mirror Which Makes Beautiful That Which Is Distorted.

All High Poetry Is Infinite; It Is As The First Acorn, Which Contained All Oaks Potentially.

My Name Is Ozymandias, King Of Kings: Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, And Despair!

O Wild West Wind, Thou Breath Of Autumn's Being. Thou, From Whose Unseen Presence The Leaves Dead Are Driven, Like Ghosts From An Enchanter Fleeing.