O, Wind, If Winter Comes, Can Spring

Lost Echo Sits Amid The Voiceless Mountains, And Feeds Her Grief.

Mild Is The Slow Necessity Of Death; The Tranquil Spirit Fails Beneath Its Grasp, Without A Groan, Almost Without A Fear, Resigned In Peace To The Necessity; Calm As A Voyager To Some Distant Land, And Full Of Wonder, Full Of Hope As He.

Contemporary Criticism Only Represents The Amount Of Ignorance Genius Has To Contend With. . . . Time Will Reverse The Judgement Of The Vulgar.

Persevere Even Though Hell And Destruction Should Yawn Beneath Your Feet.

Oh That Simplicity And Innocence Its Own Unvalued Work So Seldom Knows!