To Make Converts Is The Natural Ambition

The Deed Is Everything, The Glory Is Naught.

Superstition Is The Poesy Of Practical Life; Hence, A Poet Is None The Worse For Being Superstitious.

Everyone Is Deceived In His Hopes, Cheated In His Expectations.

No One As Ever Completed Their Apprenticeship.

The Bed Of Flowers Loosens Amain, The Beauteous Snowdrops Droop O'er The Plain. The Crocus Opens Its Glowing Bud, Like Emeralds Others, Others, Like Blood. With Saucy Gesture Primroses Flare, And Roguish Violets, Hidden With Care; And Whatsoever There Stirs And Strives, The Spring's Contented, If Works And Thrives.