He Who Does Not See Things In

Cultivo Una Rosa Blanca, En Julio Como En Enero, Para El Amigo Sincero Que Me Da Su Mano Franca. Y Para El Cruel Que Me Arranca El Corazon Con Que Vivo, Cardo Ni Oruga Cultivo Cultivo Una Rosa Blanca. I Have A White Rose To Tend In July As In January; I Give It To The True Friend Who Offers His Frank Hand To Me. And To The Cruel One Whose Blows Break The Heart By Which I Live, Thistle Nor Thorn Do I Give: For Him, Too, I Have A White Rose.

Charm Is A Product Of The Unexpected.

I Come From All Places And To All Places I Go: I Am Art Among The Arts And Mountain Among Mountains. I Know The Strange Names Of Flowers And Herbs And Of Fatal Deceptions And Magnificent Griefs. In Night's Darkness I've Seen Raining Down On My Head Pure Flames, Flashing Rays Of Beauty Divine.

Perhaps The Enemies Of Liberty Are Such Only Because They Judge It By Its Loud Voice.

Mountains Culminate In Peaks, And Nations In Men.