I Have Met A Thousand Scamps; But

Count Art By Gold, And It Fetters The Feet It Once Winged.

Fame! It Is The Flower Of A Day, That Dies When The Next Sun Rises.

For What Is The Gift Of The Poet And The Artist Except To See The Sights Which Others Cannot See And To Hear The Sounds That Others Cannot Hear?

Coleridge Cried; "o God, How Glorious It Is To Live!" Renan Asks, "o God, When Will It Be Worth While To Live?" In Nature We Echo The Poet; In The World We Echo The Thinker.

A New Life Is Innocent, Like An Empty Page, Ready For The Hard Lessons Ahead. Gennita Low, Facing Fear To Vice, Innocence Must Always Seem Only A Superior Kind Of Chicanery.