There Is Nothing Like Despair To Make

But It Is Not For The Perfect Vase Or The Polished Gem To Choose Their Owners.

The Perpetual Stream Of Human Nature Is Formed Into Ever-changing Shallows, Eddies, Falls And Pools By The Land Over Which It Passes. Perhaps The Only Real Value Of History Lies In Considering This Endlessly Varied Play Between The Essence And The Accidents.

Death Was The Price Of Life.

In All Men Is Evil Sleeping; The Good Man Is He Who Will Not Awaken It, In Himself Or In Other Men.

He Sees Himself In His Lover As If In A Mirror, Not Knowing Whom He Sees, And When They Are Together, He Too Is Released From Pain, And When Apart, He Longs As He Himself Is Longed For; For Reflected In His Heart Is Love's Image, Which Is Love's Answer. But He Calls It, And Believes It, Not Love But Friendship.