Ribbons A-flutter And Orchids A-tremble, Yearly The

Borders Are Scratched Across The Hearts Of Men By Strangers With A Calm, Judicial Pen, And When The Borders Bleed We Watch With Dread The Lines Of Ink Across The Map Turn Red.

One Is As One Is, And The Love That Can't Encompass Both Is A Poor Sort Of Love.

I Would Call An Intellectual One Whose Instrument Of Work - His Mind - Is Also His Major Source Of Pleasure; A Man Whose Entertainment Is His Intelligence.

[the Sea] Is The Healer And The Reviver, It Cleanses The Cavities Of Self-disgust And Melancholy, Of Sloth And Negation With The Salt Solution Of Life. It Cures The Lethargies Of Flesh And Spirit With The Slap And Shake Of Elemental Force. It Cradles And Comforts. Give It Trust And It Holds You Secure; Fight It And It Kills.

A Seventeenth-century Painting Can Be "modern" Because The Living Eye Finds It Fresh And New. A "modern" Painting Can Be Outdated Because It Was A Product Of The Moment And Not Of Time.