Tomorrow Is No Man's Gift.

It Is Not The Broken Heart That Kills, But Broken Pride, Monseigneur.

Love Knows Not Distance; It Hath No Continent; Its Eyes Are For The Stars, Its Feet For The Swords; It Continueth, Though An Army Lay Waste The Pasture; It Comforteth When There Are No Medicines; It Hath The Relish Of Manna; And By It Do Men Live In The Desert.

That Which Is Loved May Pass, But Love Hath No End.

Every Man Should Have Laws Of His Own, I Should Think; Commandments Of His Own, For Every Man Has A Different Set Of Circumstances Wherein To Work - Or Worry.

In All Secrets There Is A Kind Of Guilt, However Beautiful Or Joyful They May Be, Or For What Good End They May Be Set To Serve. Secrecy Means Evasion, And Evasion Means A Problem To The Moral Mind.