The Day Breaks Not, It Is My

But Think That We Are But Turned Aside To Sleep.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

True Joy Is The Earnest Which We Have Of Heaven, It Is The Treasure Of The Soul, And Therefore Should Be Laid In A Safe Place, And Nothing In This World Is Safe To Place It In.

We Love And Understand Talent; We Wish It Be Within Us. The Truly Gifted, Those Exceptional Few, Must Wait For The World To Catch Up.

Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's Thy Jail.