It Was In My 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.

For What Is Prayer But The Expansion Of Your Self Into The Living Ether?

A Man Can Be Free Without Being Great, But No Man Can Be Great Without Being Free.

All You Have Shall Some Day Be Given. Therefore Give Now, That The Season Of Giving May Be Yours And Not Your Inheritors.

Much Of Your Pain Is The Bitter Potion By Which The Physician Within You Heals Your Sick Self.