Art Is Endless Like A River Flowing,

Truth Never Penetrates An Unwilling Mind.

I Am Almost Sure To Be Blotted Out By Death, But Sometimes I Think It Is Not Impossible That I May Continue To Live In Some Other Manner After My Physical Death . Or, As Hamlet Wonders, What Dreams Will Come When We Leave This Body?

On The Floor, And Hanging On To The Bar, Squatted An Old Man, Immobile As An Object. His Years Had Reduced And Polished Him As Water Does A Stone Or The Generations Of Men Do A Sentence.

To Arrange A Library Is To Practice In A Quiet And Modest Way The Art Of Criticism.

I Secretly Assumed, As Poets Do, The Duty On Me To Define The Moon.