Wise Books For Half The Truths They

The Golden Moments In The Stream Of Life Rush Past Us, And We See Nothing But Sand; The Angels Come To Visit Us, And We Only Know Them When They Are Gone.

We Are All Of Us Imaginative In Some Form Or Other, For Images Are The Brood Of Desire.

There Is No Killing The Suspicion That Deceit Has Once Begotten.

Each Thought Is A Nail That Is Driven In Structures That Cannot Decay; And The Mansion At Last Will Be Given To Us As We Build It Each Day.

It Is Always Fatal To Have Music Or Poetry Interrupted.