The world revolves upon an I; and we upon ourselves; for we are our own worlds:--all other men as strangers, from outlandish, distant climes, going clad in furs.

Then, whate'er they be, let us show our worlds; and not seek to hide from men, what Oro knows." "Truth, my lord," said Yoomy, "but all this applies to men in mass; not specially, to my poor craft.

Of all mortals, we poets are most subject to contrary moods.

Now, heaven over heaven in the skies; now layer under layer in the dust.

This, the penalty we pay for being what we are.