Though The Favourites Of The Gods Die

Pitch-black Winter Nights Live In My Bones.

In Every Real Man A Child Is Hidden That Wants To Play.

We Must Remain As Close To The Flowers, The Grass, And The Butterflies As The Child Is Who Is Not Yet So Much Taller Than They Are. We Adults, On The Other Hand, Have Outgrown Them And Have To Lower Ourselves To Stoop Down To Them. It Seems To Me That The Grass Hates Us When We Confess Our Love For It. Whoever Would Partake Of All Good Things Must Understand How To Be Small At Times.

The Visionary Lies To Himself, The Liar Only To Others.

I Love Him Who Desireth Not Too Many Virtues. One Virtue Is More Of A Virtue Than Two, Because It Is More Of A Knot For One's Destiny To Cling To.