The Mind Of A Bigot To The

Our Brains Are Seventy-year Clocks. The Angel Of Life Winds Them Up Once For All, Then Closes The Case, And Gives The Key Into The Hand Of The Angel Of The Resurrection.

And If I Should Live To Be The Last Leaf Upon The Tree In The Spring, Let Them Smile, As I Do Now, At The Old Forsaken Bough Where I Cling.

Love Prefers Twilight To Daylight.

Youth Fades, Love Droops, The Leaves Of Friendship Fall; A Mother's Secret Hope Outlives Them All.

The Books We Read Should Be Chosen With Great Care, That They May Be, As An Egyptian King Wrote Over His Library,'the Medicines Of The Soul.