Thou Two-faced Year, Mother Of Change And

No Man Had Ever Heard A Nightingale, When Once A Keen-eyed Naturalist Was Stirred To Study And Define -- What Is A Bird.

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free, The Wretched Refuse Of Your Teeming Shore, Send These, The Homeless, Tempest-tossed, To Me: I Lift My Lamp Beside The Golden Door.

Life's Sharpest Rapture Is Surcease Of Pain.

My Own Curiosity And Interest Are Insatiable.

The Soul, At Peace, Reflects The Peace Without, Forgetting Grief As Sunset Skies Forget The Morning's Transient Shower.