A Perfect God Is The

Where Can One Find A Profounder Desolation Than In The Poor Child Who Has Lost Its Mother?

An Old Mans Memories, Like His Bones, Grow Sharp With Age And Show Their True Shapes.

For The Essential Thing About The Work Of Art Is That It Is Work, And Very Hard Work Too.

The Truth Is That Life Is Hard And Dangerous; That He Who Seeks His Own Happiness Does Not Find It; That He Who Is Weak Must Suffer; That He Who Demands Love Will Be Disappointed; That He Who Is Greedy Will Not Be Fed; That He Who Seeks Peace Will Find Strife; That Truth Is Only For The Brave; That Joy Is Only For Him Who Does Not Fear To Be Alone; That Life Is Only For The One Who Is Not Afraid To Die.

Nothing Like Poetry When You Lie Awake At Night. It Keeps The Old Brain Limber. It Washes Away The Mud And Sand That Keeps On Blocking Up The Bends. Like Waves To Make The Pebbles Dance On My Old Floors. And Turn Them Into Rubies And Jacinths; Or At Any Rate, Good Imitations.