There, Where One Burns Books...

Graves They Say Are Warm'd By Glory; Foolish Words And Empty Story.

Newness Hath An Evanescent Beauty.

Perhaps Already I Am Dead, And These Perhaps Are Phantoms Vain; - These Motley Phantasies That Pass At Night Through My Disordered Brain. Perhaps With Ancient Heathen Shapes, Old Faded Gods, This Brain Is Full; Who, For Their Most Unholy Rites, Have Chosen A Dead Poet's Skull.

I Do Not Know If She Was Virtuous, But She Was Ugly, And With A Woman That Is Half The Battle.

That Was Only The Beginning - Where One Burns Books, One Will Finally Also Burn People.