Seldom Indeed Does Human Virtue Rise From

Here Let Dead Poetry Rise Once More To Life.

In Judgement Be Ye Not Too Confident, Even As A Man Who Will Appraise His Corn When Standing In A Field, Ere It Is Ripe.

He Who Sees A Need And Waits To Be Asked For Help Is As Unkind As If He Had Refused It.

O Power Of Fantasy That Steals Our Minds From Things Outside, To Leave Us Unaware, Although A Thousand Trumpets May Blow Loud--what Stirs You If The Senses Show You Nothing? Light Stirs You, Formed In Heaven, By Itself, Or By His Will Who Sends It Down To Us.

The Customs And Fashions Of Men Change Like Leaves On The Bough, Some Of Which Go And Others Come.