Our Worst Fault Is Our Preoccupation With

And All Knowledge Is Vain Save When There Is Work, And All Work Is Empty Save When There Is Love; And When You Work With Love You Bind Yourself To Yourself, And To One Another, And To God.

Solitude Has Soft, Silky Hands, But With Strong Fingers It Grasps The Heart And Makes It Ache With Sorrow.

A Look Which Reveals Inward Stress Adds More Beauty To The Face, No Matter How Much Tragedy And Pain It Bespeaks; But The Face Which, In Silence, Does Not Announce Hidden Mysteries Is Not Beautiful, Regardless Of The Symmetry Of Its Features.

Let Your Best Be For Your Friend.

Poetry, My Dear Friends, Is A Sacred Incarnation Of A Smile. Poetry Is A Sigh That Dries The Tears. Poetry Is A Spirit Who Dwells In The Soul, Whose Nourishment Is The Heart, Whose Wine Is Affection. Poetry That Comes Not In This Form Is A False Messiah.