The Lemonade Is Weak, Like Your Soul.

The Empire Of Saturnus Is Gone By; Lord Of The Secret Birth Of Things Is He; Within The Lap Of Earth, And In The Depths Of The Imagination Dominates; And His Are All Things That Eschew The Light. The Time Is O'er Of Brooding And Contrivance, For Jupiter, The Lustrous, Lordeth Now, And The Dark Work, Complete Of Preparation, He Draws By Force Into The Realm Of Light. Now Must We Hasten On To Action, Ere The Scheme, And Most Auspicious Positure Parts O'er My Head, And Takes Once More Its Flight, For The Heavens Journey Still, And Adjourn Not.

An Honest Man You May Form Of Windle-straws, But To Make A Rogue You Must Have Grist.

Time Flies On Restless Pinions - Constant Never.

When The Measured Dance Of The Hours Brings Back The Happy Smile Of Spring, The Buried Dead Is Born Again In The Life-glance Of The Sun. The Germs Which Perished To The Eye Within The Cold Breast Of The Earth Spring Up With Joy In The Bright Realm Of Day.

Secrecy Is For The Happy,--misery, Hopeless Misery, Needs No Veil; Under A Thousand Suns It Dares Act Openly.