Death, Thou Art Infinite; It Is Life

Worthy Books Are Not Companions – They Are Solitudes: We Lose Ourselves In Them And All Our Cares.

Music Lives Within Thy Lips Like A Nightingale In Roses.

The Course Of Nature Seems A Course Of Death, And Nothingness The Whole Substantial Thing.

Tis Light Translateth Night; 'tis Inspiration Expounds Experience; 'tis The West Explains The East; 'tis Time Unfolds Eternity.

Men Might Be Better If We Better Deemed Of Them.