Books Are Men Of Higher Stature.

Sing, Seraph With The Glory! Heaven Is High. Sing, Poet With The Sorrow! Earth Is Low. The Universe's Inward Voices Cry "amen" To Either Song Of Joy And Woe. Sing, Seraph, Poet! Sing On Equally!

You're Something Between A Dream And A Miracle.

Don't Get Me Wrong-painting's All Right. But Now That We Have Photography, What's The Point?

Capacity For Joy Admits Temptation.

When The Dust Of Death Has Choked A Great Man's Voice, The Common Words He Said Turn Oracles, The Common Thoughts He Yoked Like Horses Draw Like Griffins.