Art Is A Mediator Of The Unspeakable.

Over The Trackless Past, Somewhere, Lie The Lost Days Of Our Tropic Youth, Only Regained By Faith And Prayer, Only Recalled By Prayer And Plaint, Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!

Give Me Those Days With Heart In Riot, The Depths Of Bliss That Touched On Pain, The Force Of Hate, And Love's Disquiet- Ah, Give Me Back My Youth Again!

Every Man Must Form Himself As A Particular Being, Seeking, However, To Attain That General Idea Of Which All Mankind Are Constituents.

With Little Wit And Ease To Suit Them, They Whirl In Narrow Circling Trails, Like Kittens Playing With Their Tails.

Man Errs As Long As He Strives.