Never Seek To Tell Thy Love; Love

O Thou With Dewy Locks, Who Lookest Down Thro' The Clear Windows Of The Morning, Turn Thine Angel Eyes Upon Our Western Isle, Which In Full Choir Hails Thy Approach, O Spring! The Hills Tell Each Other, And The Listening Valleys Hear; All Our Longing Eyes Are Turned Up To Thy Bright Pavilions: Issue Forth, And Let Thy Holy Feet Visit Our Clime. Come O'er The Eastern Hills, And Let Our Winds Kiss Thy Perfumed Garments; Let Us Taste Thy Morn And Evening Breath; Scatter Thy Pearls Upon Our Love-sick Land That Mourns For Thee.

In The Universe, There Are Things That Are Known, And Things That Are Unknown, And In Between, There Are Doors.

Come Live, And Be Merry, And Join With Me, To Sing The Sweet Chorus Of 'ha Ha He!

The Human Mind Cannot Go Beyond The Gift Of God, The Holy Ghost. To Suppose That Art Can Go Beyond The Finest Specimens Of Art That Are Now In The World Is Not Knowing What Art Is; It Is Being Blind To The Gifts Of The Spirit.

Every Harlot Was A Virgin Once.