Remember, One Just Man Causes The Devil

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

Love That Does Not Renew Itself Every Day Becomes A Habit And In Turn A Slavery.

They Consider Me To Have Sharp And Penetrating Vision Because I See Them Through The Mesh Of A Sieve.

Everyone Has Experienced That Truth: That Love, Like A Running Brook, Is Disregarded, Taken For Granted; But When The Brook Freezes Over, Then People Begin To Remember How It Was When It Ran, And They Want It To Run Again.

Death Most Resembles A Prophet Who Is Without Honor In His Own Land Or A Poet Who Is A Stranger Among His People.