May Is A Pious Fraud Of The

The Devil Loves Nothing Better Than The Intolerance Of Reformers.

A Stray Hair, By Its Continued Irritation, May Give More Annoyance Than A Smart Blow.

Some Day The Soft Ideal That We Wooed Confronts Us Fiercely, Foe-beset, Pursued, And Cries Reproachful: Was It Then My Praise, And Not Myself Was Loved? Prove Now Thy Truth; I Claim Of Thee The Promise Of Thy Youth.

Whoever Can Endure Unmixed Delight, Whoever Can Tolerate Music And Painting And Poetry All In One, Whoever Wishes To Be Rid Of Thought And To Let The Busy Anvils Of The Brain Be Silent For A Time, Let Him Read In The "faery Queen."

Light Is The Symbol Of Truth.