Our Safety Is Not In Blindness, But

Ah, To That Far Distant Strand Bridge There Was Not To Convey, Not A Bark Was Near At Hand, Yet True Love Soon Found The Way.

Time Is A Blooming Field: Nature Is Ever Teeming With Life: And All Is Seed, And All Is Fruit.

No Doubt The Artist Is The Child Of His Time; But Woe To Him If He Is Also Its Disciple, Or Even Its Favorite.

Accursed Be He Who Plays With The Devil.

Death Is A Mighty Mediator. There All The Flames Of Rage Are Extinguished, Hatred Is Appeased, And Angelic Pity, Like A Weeping Sister, Bends With Gentle And Close Embrace Over The Funeral Urn.