Fact Is Based Upon Vulgar Matter.

And All Now Is War Where So Lately There Was Peace, And The Sweet Brotherhood, The Use Of Tilled Fields.

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

One Loves Only Form, And Form Only Comes Into Existence When The Thing Is Born.

What Does Not Change Is The Will To Change

Is It Not The Play Of The Mind We Are After? Is It Not That That Shows A Mind Is There At All?