Great Is The Art Of Beginning, But

There Is No Death! What Seems So Is Transition; This Life Of Mortal Breath Is But A Suburb Of The Life Elysian, Whose Portal We Call Death.

Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined; Often In A Wooden House A Golden Room We Find.

And The Bright Faces Of My Young Companions Are Wrinkled Like My Own, Or Are No More.

And When She Was Good She Was Very Very Good. But When She Was Bad She Was Horrid.

As Unto The Bow The The Cord Is , So Unto The Man Is Woman; Though She Bends Him, She Obeys Him, Though She Draws Him , Yet She Follows: Useless Each Without The Other.