As The Strings Of A Lute Are

The Brooks Flow To Their Lover, The Sea, And The Flowers Smile At The Object Of Their Passion, The Light. The Mist Rolls Down To Its Beloved, The Valley. And I? In Me Is What Brooks Do Not Know, What Flowers Do Not Hear, What The Mist Does Not Apprehend. You See Me Alone In My Love, Solitary In My Yearning.

Inspiration Will Always Sing; Inspiration Will Never Explain.

You Can Muffle The Drum, And You Can Loosen The Strings Of The Lyre, But Who Shall Command The Skylark Not To Sing?

The Love Of A Parent For A Child Is The Love That Should Grow Towards Separation.

Progress Lies Not In Enhancing What Is, But In Advancing Toward What Will Be.