It Is A Kind Of Blindness--poverty. We

Brussels Is A Gay Little City That Lies As Bright Within Its Girdle Of Woodland As Any Butterfly That Rests Upon Moss.

Flowers Belong To Fairyland: The Flowers And The Birds And The Butterflies Are All That The World Has Kept Of Its Golden Age--the Only Perfectly Beautiful Things On Earth--joyous, Innocent, Half Divine--useless, Say They Who Are Wiser Than God.

When Passion And Habit Long Lie In Company It Is Only Slowly And With Incredulity That Habit Awakens To Finds Its Companion Fled, Itself Alone.

For What Is The Gift Of The Poet And The Artist Except To See The Sights Which Others Cannot See And To Hear The Sounds That Others Cannot Hear?

Friendship Needs To Be Rooted In Respect, But Love Can Live Upon Itself Alone