Poets And Heroes Are Of The Same

Let Us Love The Passing Hour, Let Us Hurry Up And Enjoy Our Time.

To Love For The Sake Of Being Loved Is Human, But To Love For The Sake Of Loving Is Angelic.

The People Will Not Allow Themselves To Be Changed Into Hogs By The Circes Of Atheism. Their Souls Will Flash Indignation Against Their Transformers. A Day Will Come When They Will See That They Are Impoverished Under The Pretext Of Being Enriched; That, When They Are Robbed Of Their Souls And Of God, Both Their Titles To Liberty Are Stolen From Them.

The Death Of A Man's Wife Is Like Cutting Down An Ancient Oak That Has Long Shaded The Family Mansion. Henceforth The Glare Of The World, With Its Cares And Vicissitudes Falls Upon The Old Widower's Heart, And There Is Nothing To Break Their Force, Or Shield Him From The Full Weight Of Misfortune. It Is As If His Right Hand Were Withered; As If One Wing Of His Angel Was Broken, And Every Movement That He Made Brought Him To The Ground.

There Are Places And Climates, Seasons And Hours, With Their Outward Circumstance, So Much In Harmony With Certain Impressions Of The Heart, That Nature And The Soul Of Man Appear To Be Parts Of One Vast Whole.