For What Avail The Plough

Dream Delivers Us To Dream, And There Is No End To Illusion. Life Is Like A Train Of Moods Like A String Of Beads, And, As We Pass Through Them, They Prove To Be Many-colored Lenses Which Paint The World Their Own Hue. . . .

Beside All The Small Reasons We Assign, There Is A Great Reason For The Existence Of Every Extant Fact; A Reason Which Lies Grandand Immovable, Often Unsuspected Behind It In Silence.

The Remedy For All Blunders, The Cure Of Blindness, The Cure Of Crime, Is Love.

Do Not Follow Where The Path May Lead.

The True Poem Is The Poet's Mind.