The Poor Are Only They Who Feel

None Believeth In The Soul Of Man, But Only In Some Man Or Person Old And Departed.

Spring Still Makes Spring In The Mind When Sixty Years Are Told: Love Wakes Anew This Throbbing Heart, And We Are Never Old Over The Winter Glaciers I See The Summer Glow And Through The Wind-piled Snowdrift The Warm Rosebuds Below.

And The Glory Of Character Is In Affronting The Horrors Of Depravity To Draw Thence New Nobilities Of Power: As Art Lives And Thrills In New Use And Combining Of Contrasts, And Mining Into The Dark Evermore For Blacker Pits Of Night.

There Is Guidance For Each Of Us, And By Lowly Listening We Shall Hear The Right Word.

If You Tax Too High, The Revenue Will Yield Nothing.