My Mother Groaned, My Father Wept, Into

Art Is The Tree Of Life. Science Is The Tree Of Death.

O White-robed Angel, Guide My Timorous Hand To Write As On A Lofty Rock With Iron Pen The Words Of Truth, That All Who Pass May Read.

To Be An Error And To Be Cast Out Is A Part Of God's Design.

Children Of The Future Age Reading This Indignant Page Know That In A Former Time Love, Sweet Love, Was Thought A Crime

Hold Infinity In The Palm Of Your Hand.