Our Ideals, Like Pictures, Are

Ideas Never Lack For Words. It Is Words That Lack Ideas. As Soon As The Idea Has Come To Its Last Degree Of Perfection, The Word Blossoms.

When My Friends Lack An Eye, I Look At Them In Profile.

Men Have Torn Up The Roads Which Led To Heaven, And Which All The World Followed; Now We Have To Make Our Own Ladders.

Thoughts There Are, That Need No Embodying, No Form, No Expression. It Is Enough To Hint At Them Vaguely; A Word, And They Are Heard And Seen.

Truth Takes The Stamp Of The Souls It Enters. It Is Rigorous And Rough In Arid Souls, But Tempers And Softens Itself In Loving Natures.