In The Sinews Of The Dead There

Black Smoke, The Flickering Sister Of Fire.

Be It Mine To Draw From Wisdom's Fount, Pure As It Flows, That Calm Of Soul Which Virtue Only Knows.

When A Tongue Fails To Send Forth Appropriate Shafts, There Might Be A Word To Act As Healer Of These.

Learning Is Ever In The Freshness Of Its Youth, Even For The Old.

There Is No Sickness Worse For Me Than Words That To Be Kind Must Lie.