It Is Better To Live Alone, There

That Is The Returning To God Which In Reality Is Never Concluded On Earth But Yet Leaves Behind In The Soul A Divine Home Sickness, Which Never Again Ceases.

It Is The Heart That Makes The Critic, Not The Nose.

That Deed Is Not Well Done Of Which A Man Must Repent, And The Reward Of Which He Receives Crying And With A Tearful Face.

Is It Sin, Which Makes The Worm A Chrysalis, And The Chrysalis A Butterfly, And The Butterfly Dust?

The Morning Hour Has Gold At The Mouth.