Every Period Of Time Is A Sphinx

The Nightingale Appear'd The First, And As Her Melody She Sang, The Apple Into Blossom Burst, To Life The Grass And Violets Sprang.

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

Round My Cradle Shimmered The Last Moonbeams Of The Eighteenth Century And The First Morning Rays Of The Nineteenth.

Every Age Thinks Its Battle The Most Important Of All.

If One Has No Heart, One Cannot Write For The Masses.