Poetry Fettered Fetters The Human

To My Eye Rubens' Colouring Is Most Contemptible. His Shadows Are A Filthy Brown Somewhat The Colour Of Excrement.

Struggling In My Father's Hands, Striving Against My Swaddling Bands, Bound And Weary, I Thought Best To Sulk Upon My Mother's Breast.

He Who Doubts From What He Sees Will Ne'er Believe, Do What You Please.

One Thought Fills Immensity.

He Who Desires, But Acts Not, Breeds Pestilence.