Heaven Trims Our Lamps While We Sleep.

We Climb To Heaven Most Often On The Ruins Of Our Cherished Plans, Finding Our Failures Were Successes.

Man Is A Living Lie--a Bitter Jest Upon Himself--a Conscious Grain Of Sand Lost In A Desert Of Unconsciousness.

Pity The Mother Who Assumes The Name Without Being All This Implies!

The Head Best Leaves To The Heart What The Heart Alone Divines.

Like Birds Of Passage, The Instincts Drift The Soul Adventurously Beyond The Horizon Of Sensible Things, As If Intent On Convoying It To The Mother Country From Whence It Had Flown.