The Mind Is Its Own

Thou Canst Not Touch The Freedom Of My Mind.

Beauty Is God's Handwriting-a Wayside Sacrament.

How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief Of Youth, Stolen On His Wing My Three-and-twentieth Year!

Such As The Meeting Soul May Pierce, In Notes With Many A Winding Bout Of Linked Sweetness Long Drawn Out.

And Feel By Turns The Bitter Change Of Fierce Extremes, Extremes By Change More Fierce.