Earth, The Mother Of All, Moves On

Chance Works For Us When We Are Good Captains.

And If I Drink Oblivion Of A Day, / So Shorten I The Stature Of My Soul.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

The Well Of True Wit Is Truth Itself.

Who Rises From Prayer A Better Man, His Prayer Is Answered.