O Have A Care Of Natures That

The Man Of Science Is Nothing If Not A Poet Gone Wrong.

Days, When The Ball Of Our Vision Had Eagles That Flew Unabashed To Sun; When The Graps On The Bow Was Decision, And Arrow And Hand And Eye Were One; When The Pleasures, Like Waves To A Swimmer, Came Heaving For Rapture Ahead! - Invoke Them, They Dwindle, They Glimmer As Lights Over Mounds Of The Dead.

Cynicism Is Intellectual Dandyism.

Faith Works Miracles. At Least It Allows Time For Them.

Earth, The Mother Of All, Moves On Her Stedfast Way, Gathering, Flinging, Sowing. Mortals, We Live In Her Day, She In Her Children Is Growing.