Oh, What Company Good Poets

To Beautify Life Is To Give It An Object.

I Know That When The World Surrenders, Pallid, To Repose, The Murmur Of A Tranquil Stream Through The Deep Silence Flows.

A Child Who Does Not Think About What Happens Around Him And Is Content With Living Without Wondering Whether He Lives Honestly Is Like A Man Who Lives From A Scoundrel's Work And Is On The Road To Being A Scoundrel.

Only Those Who Hate The Negro See Hatred In The Negro.

He Who Could Have Been A Torch And Stoops To Being A Pair Of Jaws Is A Deserter.