The Temple Of Art Is Built In

The Soul, Like The Body, Lives By What It Feeds On.

My God! I Thank Thee For The Bath Of Sleep, That Wraps In Balm My Weary Heart And Brain, And Drowns Within Its Waters Still And Deep My Sorrow And My Pain. I Thank Thee For My Dreams, Which Loose The Bond That Binds My Spirit To Its Daily Load, And Give It Angel Wings, To Fly Beyond Its Slumber-bound Abode.

The Cry Of The Soul Is For Freedom. It Longs For Liberty, From The Date Of Its First Conscious Moments.

Humanity Is Constitutionally Lazy.

We Work And That Is Godlike.