Without Poetry The Soul And

A Black Cat Among Roses, Phlox, Lilac-misted Under A Quarter Moon, The Sweet Smells Of Heliotrope And Night-scented Stock. The Garden Is Very Still. It Is Dazed With Moonlight, Contented With Perfume.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

Art Is The Desire Of A Man To Express Himself, To Record The Reactions Of His Personality To The World He Lives In.

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

Everything Mortal Has Moments Immortal