To An Imagination Of Any Scope The

There Is A Little Plant Called Reverence In The Corner Of My Soul's Garden, Which I Love To Have Watered Once A Week.

This Is A Court Of Law, Not A Court Of Justice.

To Us Who Remain Behind Is Left This Day Of Memories. Every Year--in The Full Tide Of Spring, At The Height Of The Symphony Of Flowers And Love And Life--there Comes A Pause, And Through The Silence We Hear The Lonely Pipe Of Death.

To Rest Upon A Formula Is A Slumber That, Prolonged, Means Death.

The Best Of A Book Is Not The Thought Which It Contains, But The Thought Which It Suggests; Just As The Charm Of Music Dwells Not In The Tones But In The Echoes Of Our Hearts.