Some Poems Are Like The Centaurs--a Mingling

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

There's Nothing In This World So Sweet As Love. And Next To Love The Sweetest Thing Is Hate.

Tis Always Morning Somewhere.

Decide Not Rashly. The Decision Made Can Never Be Recalled. The Gods Implore Not, Plead Not, Solicit Not; They Only Offer Choice And Occasion, Which Once Being Passed Return No More. Dost Thou Accept The Gift?

Love Is The Root Of Creation; God's Essence; Worlds Without Number Lie In His Bosom Like Children; He Made Them For This Purpose Only. Only To Love And To Be Loved Again.