Oh, Christ! It Is A Goodly Sight

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.

Sorrow Is Knowledge, Those That Know The Most Must Mourn The Deepest, The Tree Of Knowledge Is Not The Tree Of Life.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.