Wake At Dawn With A Winged Heart

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

The Highest Virtue Here May Be Least In Another World.

He Who Does Not Prefer Exile To Slavery Is Not Free By Any Measure Of Freedom, Truth And Duty.

The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain.

They Give That They May Live, For To Withhold Is To Perish.