The Fear Of Doing Right Is The

Books Are Not Men And Yet They Stay Alive.

The Bibliophile Is The Master Of His Books, The Bibliomaniac Their Slave.

But There Have Been Human Hearts, Constituted Just Like Ours, For Six Thousand Years. The Same Stars Rise And Set Upon This Globe That Rose Upon The Plains Of Shinar Or Along The Egyptian Nile And The Same Sorrows Rise And Set In Every Age.

As For Marigolds, Poppies, Hollyhocks, And Valorous Sunflowers, We Shall Never Have A Garden Without Them, Both For Their Own Sake, And For The Sake Of Old-fashioned Folks, Who Used To Love Them.

Rain! Whose Soft Architectural Hands Have Power To Cut Stones, And Chisel To Shapes Of Grandeur The Very Mountains.