Nothing Useless Is, Or Low; Each Thing

The Smoking Flax Before It Burst To Flame Was Quenched By Death, And Broken The Bruised Reed.

Art Is The Child Of Nature.

I Hear The Wind Among The Trees Playing The Celestial Symphonies; I See The Branches Downward Bent, Like Keys Of Some Great Instrument.

It Is Autumn; Not Without But Within Me Is The Cold. Youth And Spring Are All About; It Is I That Have Grown Old.

Would You Learn The Secret Of The Sea? Only Those Who Brave Its Dangers, Comprehend Its Mystery!