O Maternal Earth Which Rocks The Fallen

This Is A Man With An Old Face, Always Old... There Was Pathos, In His Face, And In His Eyes. The Early Weariness; And Sometimes Tears In His Eyes, Which He Let Slip Unconsciously On His Cheek, Or Brushed Away With An Unconcerned Hand. There Were Tears For Human Suffering, Or For A Glance Into The Vast Futility Of Life, Which He Had Seen From The First, Being Old When He Was Born.

The Snows And The Roses Of Yesterday Are Vanished; And What Is Love But A Rose That Fades?

In Time You Shall See Fate Approach You In The Shape Of Your Own Image In The Mirror.

Beware Of The Man Who Rises To Power From One Suspender.

Genius Is A Bend In The Creek Where Bright Water Has Gathered, And Which Mirrors The Trees, The Sky And The Banks. It Just Does That Because It Is There And The Scenery Is There. Talent Is A Fine Mirror With A Silver Frame, With The Name Of The Owner Engraved On The Back.