Where Books Are Burned In The End

The More I Get To Know People, The More I Like Dogs.

A Pine Tree Standeth Lonely In The North On An Upland Bare; It Standeth Whitely Shrouded With Snow, And Sleepeth There. It Dreameth Of A Palm Tree Which Far In The East Alone, In The Mournful Silence Standeth On Its Ridge Of Burning Stone.

Ask Me Not What I Have, But What I Am.

Lyrical Poetry Is Much The Same An Every Age, As The Songs Of The Nightingales In Every Spring-time.

The Men Of The Past Had Convictions, While We Moderns Have Only Opinions.