Mother, Whose Heart Hung Humble As A

Xxviii "truth," Said A Traveller, "is A Rock, A Mighty Fortress; "often Have I Been To It, "even To Its Highest Tower, "from Whence The World Looks Black." "truth," Said A Traveller, "is A Breath, A Wind, "a Shadow, A Phantom; "long Have I Pursued It, "but Never Have I Touched "the Hem Of Its Garment." And I Believed The Second Traveller; For Truth Was To Me A Breath, A Wind, A Shadow, A Phantom, And Never Had I Touched The Hem Of Its Garment.

Sometimes, The Most Profound Of Awakenings Come Wrapped In The Quietest Of Moments.

It Was Surprising That Nature Had Gone Tranquilly On With Her Golden Process In The Midst Of So Much Devilment.

Half Of Tradition Is A Lie.

Perhaps An Individual Must Consider His Own Death To Be The Final Phenomenon Of Nature.