They Have Rights Who Dare Maintain Them.

Books Are The Bees Which Carry The Quickening Pollen From One To Another Mind.

Granting Our Wish Is One Of Fate's Saddest Jokes.

And What They Dare To Dream Of, Date To Do.

Nature, They Say, Doth Dote, And Cannot Make A Man Save On Some Worn-out Plan Repeating Us By Rote: For Him Her Old World Moulds Aside She Threw And, Choosing Sweet Clay From The Breast Of The Unexhausted West, With Stuff Untainted Shaped A Hero New.

Behind The Dim Unknown, Standeth God With The Shadow, Keeping Watch Above His Own.