Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --

It Is Easy To Work When The Soul Is At Play.

Unable Are The Loved To Die, For Love Is Immortality.

Sweet Skepticism Of The Heart That Knows And Does Not Know And Tosses Like A Fleet Of Balm Affronted By The Snow.

A Shady Friend For Torrid Days Is Easier To Find Than One Of Higher Temperature For Frigid Hour Of Mind.

God Is Indeed A Jealous God. He Cannot Bear To See, That We Had Rather Not With Him, But With Each Other Play.