The Stench Of The Trail Of Ego

How Many A Thing Which We Cast To The Ground, When Others Pick It Up, Becomes A Gem!

Speech Is The Small Change Of Silence.

It Is The Devil's Masterstroke To Get Us To Accuse Him

Chance Works For Us When We Are Good Captains.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.