Write . . . Write . .

Music Played At Weddings Always Reminds Me Of The Music Played For Soldiers Before They Go Into Battle.

The Arrow Belongs Not To The Archer When It Has Once Left The Bow; The Word No Longer Belongs To The Speaker When It Has Once Passed His Lips, Especially When It Has Been Multiplied By The Press.

Where Words Leave Off, Music Begins.

Out Of My Great Sorrows, I Make Little Songs.

As The Moon's Fair Image Quaketh In The Raging Waves Of Ocean, Whilst She, In The Vault Of Heaven, Moves With Silent Peaceful Motion.