It Is Not My Words That I

The Evening Of Life Brings With It Its Lamps.

Logic Is To Grammar What The Sense Of Words Is To Their Sound.

In Clothes Clean And Fresh There Is A Kind Of Youth With Which Age Should Surround Itself.

I Resemble The Poplar,--that Tree Which, Even When Old, Still Looks Young.

God Multiplies Intelligence, Which Communicates Itself, Like Fire, Ad Infinitum. Light A Thousand Torches At One Touch, The Flame Remains Always The Same.