My Sentence Is For Open

The Winds With Wonder Whist, Smoothly The Waters Kisst.

Angels Contented With Their Face In Heaven, Seek Not The Praise Of Men.

We Should Be Wary What Persecution We Raise Against The Living Labors Of Public Men, How We Spill That Seasoned Life Of Man, Preserved And Stored Up In Books, Since We See A Kind Of Homicide May Be Thus Committed, Sometimes A Martyrdom; And If It Extend To The Whole Impression, A Kind Of Massacre, Whereof The Execution Ends Not In The Slaying Of An Elemental Life, But Strikes At The Ethereal And Fifth Essence, The Breath Of Reason Itself; Slays An Immortality Rather Than A Life.

What Am I Pondering, You Ask? So Help Me God, Immortality.

A Poet Soaring In The High Reason Of His Fancies, With His Garland And Singing Robes About Him.