The Snow And The Storm Destroy The

But Memory Is An Autumn Leaf That Murmurs A While In The Wind And Then Is Heard No More.

Believing Is A Fine Thing, But Placing Those Beliefs Into Execution Is A Test Of Strength. Many Are Those Who Talk Like The Roar Of The Sea, Gut Their Lives Are Shallow And Stagnant, Like The Rotting Marshes. Many Are Those Who Lift Their Heads Above The Mountain Tops, But Their Spirits Remain Dormant In The Obscurity Of The Caverns.

Some Of Our Children Are Our Justifications And Some Are But Our Regrets

A Sense Of Humour Is A Sense Of Proportion.

Sadness Is But A Wall Between Two Gardens.