Death Opens Unknown Doors. It Is Most

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

Life Is A Long Headache In A Noisy Street.

Man's Body Is Faulty, His Mind Untrustworthy, But His Imagination Has Made Him Remarkable.

Each One Could Be A Jesus Mild, Each One Has Been A Little Child, A Little Child With Laughing Look, A Lovely White Unwritten Book; A Book That God Will Take, My Friend, As Each Goes Out At Journey's End.

I Have Seen Dawn And Sunset On Moors And Windy Hills Coming In Solemn Beauty Like Slow Old Tunes Of Spain.