Dying Is Nothing. What's Terrible Is Not

If God Had Intended That Man Should Go Backward, He Would Have Given Him Eyes In The Back Of His Head.

In Shakespeare The Birds Sing, The Bushes Are Clothed With Green, Hearts Love, Souls Suffer, The Cloud Wanders, It Is Hot, It Is Cold, Night Falls, Time Passes, Forests And Multitudes Speak, The Vast Eternal Dream Hovers Over All. Sap And Blood, All Forms Of The Multiple Reality, Actions And Ideas, Man And Humanity, The Living And The Life, Solitudes, Cities, Religions, Diamonds And Pearls, Dung-hills And Charnelhouses, The Ebb And Flow Of Beings, The Steps Of Comers And Goers, All, All Are On Shakespeare And In Shakespeare.

They Say Love Is Blindness Of Heart; I Say Not To Love Is Blindness.

To Think Is Of Itself To Be Useful; It Is Always And In All Cases A Striving Toward God.

We Are Given Up To Those Gods, Those Monsters, Those Giants, — Our Thoughts.