Memory Heaps Dead Leaves On Corpse-like Deeds,

Justice Is A Machine That, When Some One Has Once Given It The Starting Push, Rolls On Of Itself.

There Are Moments When Nature Reveals The Passion Hidden Beneath The Careless Calm Of Her Ordinary Moods-violent Spring Flashing White On Almond-blossom Through The Purple Clouds; A Snowy, Moonlit Peak, With Its Single Star, Soaring Up To The Passionate Blue; Or Against The Flames Of Sunset, An Old Yew-tree Standing Dark Guardian Of Some Fiery Secret.

A Man Is The Sum Of His Actions, Of What He Has Done, Of What He Can Do, Nothing Else.

Slang Is Vigorous And Apt. Probably Most Of Our Vital Words Were Once Slang.

Love Has No Age, No Limit; And No Death.