Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write!

So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go, Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.

Tomorrow Is The Mysterious, Unknown Guest.

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

The Low Desire, The Base Design That Makes Another's Virtues Less.

There's Nothing Fair Nor Beautiful, But Takes Something From Thee, That Makes It Beautiful.