Don't Send A Poet To London.

Das War Ein Vorspeil Nur; That Was Only A Prelude; Dort Wo Man Buecher Verbrennt, Where One Burns Books, Vebrennt Man Auch Am Ende One Will Also Burn People Menchen. Eventually.

A Pine Tree Standeth Lonely In The North On An Upland Bare; It Standeth Whitely Shrouded With Snow, And Sleepeth There. It Dreameth Of A Palm Tree Which Far In The East Alone, In The Mournful Silence Standeth On Its Ridge Of Burning Stone.

The Artist Is The Child In The Popular Fable, Every One Of Whose Tears Was A Pearl.

It Is Only Kindred Griefs That Draw Forth Our Tears, And Each Weeps Really For Himself.

No Compass Has Ever Been Invented For The High Seas Of Matrimony.