Truth Is A Rough, Honest,

Could We See When And Where We Are To Meet Again, We Would Be More Tender When We Bid Our Friends Goodbye.

It Is A Kind Of Blindness--poverty. We Can Only Grope Through Life When We Are Poor, Hitting And Maiming Ourselves Against Every Angle.

Count Art By Gold, And It Fetters The Feet It Once Winged.

A Great Love Is An Absolute Isolation And An Absolute Absorption.

It Is The North Wind That Lashes Men Into Vikings; It Is The Soft, Luscious South Wind Which Lulls Them To Lotus Dreams.