The Nurse Of Full-grown Souls Is Solitude.

May Is A Pious Fraud Of The Almanac A Ghastly Parody Of Real Spring Shaped Out Of Snow And Breathed With Eastern Wind.

The Fireflies O'er The Meadow In Pulses Come And Go.

A Wise Skepticism Is The First Attribute Of A Good Critic.

The Green Grass Floweth Like A Stream Into The Oceans's Blue.

Who Gives Himself With His Alms Feeds Three, Himself, His Hungering Neighbor And Me.