I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism

The History Of The Past Is A Mere Puppet-show. A Little Man Comes Out And Blows A Little Trumpet, And Goes In Again. You Look For Something New, And Lo! Another Little Man Comes Out, And Blows Another Little Trumpet, And Goes In Again. And It Is All Over.

And The Wind Plays On Those Great Sonorous Harps, The Shrouds And Masts Of Ships.

Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead!

Magnificent Autumn! He Comes Not Like A Pilgrim, Clad In Russet Weeds; Not Like A Hermit, Clad In Gray; But Like A Warrior With The Stain Of Blood In His Brazen Mail.

Love Is Sunshine, Hate Is Shadow, Life Is Checkered Shade And Sunshine.