A Pipe For The Hour Of Work;

To Be At Other People's Orders Brings Out All The Bad In Me.

Time Is Money Says The Proverb, But Turn It Around And You Get A Precious Truth. Money Is Time.

And Why Should Any Man Who Writes, Even If He Writes Things Immortal, Nurse Anger At The World's Neglect? Who Asked Him To Publish? Who Promised Him A Hearing? Who Has Broken Faith With Him? Your Poem, Your Novel, Who Bargained With You For It?

It Is The Mind Which Creates The World Around Us, And Even Though We Stand Side By Side In The Same Meadow, My Eyes Will Never See What Is Beheld By Yours, My Heart Will Never Stir To The Emotions With Which Yours Is Touched.

I Have The Happiness Of A Passing Moment, And What More Can Mortal Ask?