I Carry My Unwritten Poems In Cipher

The Yoke A Man Creates For Himself By Wrong-doing Will Breed Hate In The Kindliest Nature.

Our Consciences Are Not All Of The Same Pattern.

What If My Words Were Meant For Deeds.

You Youngsters Nowadays Think You're To Begin With Living Well And Working Easy; You've No Notion Of Running Afoot Before You Get On Horseback.

I Would Not Creep Along The Coast But Steer Out In Mid-sea, By Guidance Of The Stars.