No Bird Has Ever Uttered Note That

Day Is A Snow-white Dove Of Heaven That From The East Glad Message Brings. Night Is A Stealthy, Evil Raven, Wrapped To The Eyes In His Black Wings.

How Fugitive And Brief Is Mortal Life Between The Budding And The Falling Leaf.

Civilization Is The Lamb's Skin In Which Barbarism Masquerades.

Great Thoughts In Crude, Unshapely Verse Set Forth Lose Half Their Preciousness, And Ever Must, Unless The Diamond With Its Own Rich Dust Be Cut And Polished, It Seems Little Worth.

Everyone Has A Bookplate These Days, And The Collectors Are After It. The Fool And His Bookplate Are Soon Parted. To Distribute One's Ex Libris Is Inanely To Destroy The Only Significance It Has, That Of Indicating The Past Or Present Ownership Of The Volume In Which It Is Placed.