A Little Knowledge That Acts Is Worth

If It Were Not For Guests All Houses Would Be Graves.

You Talk When You Cease To Be At Peace With Your Thoughts; And When You Can No Longer Dwell In The Solitude Of Your Heart You Live In Your Lips, And Sound Is A Diversion And A Pastime. And In Much Of Your Talking, Thinking Is Half Murdered.

When You Are Born, Your Work Is Placed In Your Heart.

The "i" In Me, My Friend, Dwells In The House Of Silence, And Therein It Shall Remain For Ever More, Unperceived, Unapproachable.

The Silence Of The Envious Is Too Noisy.