Every Harlot Was A Virgin Once.

The Thankful Receiver Bears A Plentiful Harvest.

The Pure Soul Shall Mount On Native Wings, . . . And Cut A Path Into The Heaven Of Glory.

Expect Poison From The Standing Water.

Nature In Darkness Groans And Men Are Bound To Sullen Contemplation In The Night: Restless They Turn On Beds Of Sorrow; In Their Inmost Brain Feeling The Crushing Wheels, They Rise, They Write The Bitter Words Of Stern Philosophy And Knead The Bread Of Knowledge With Tears And Groans.

In Your Own Bosom You Bear Your Heaven And Earth, And All You Behold, Though It Appears Without, It Is Within, In Your Imagination, Of Which This World Of Mortality Is But A Shadow.