How Beautiful The Silent Hour, When Morning

Dead He Is Not, But Departed, For The Artist Never Dies.

A Young Critic Is Like A Boy With A Gun; He Fires At Every Living Thing He Sees. He Thinks Only Of His Own Skill, Not Of The Pain He Is Giving.

The Sky Is Filled With Stars, Invisible By Day.

People Demand Freedom Only When They Have No Power.

Ah! What Would The World Be To Us If The Children Were No More? We Should Dread The Desert Behind Us Worse Than The Dark Before.