Every Sunset Brings The Promise Of A

Nature Is A Rag Merchant, Who Works Up Every Shred And Ort And End Into New Creations.

Why Should We Grope Among The Dry Bones Of The Past, Or Put The Living Generation Into Masquerade Out Of Its Faded Wardrobe?

The Masters Painted For Joy, And Knew Not That Virtue Had Gone Out Of Them. They Could Not Paint The Like In Cold Blood. The Masters Of English Lyric Wrote Their Songs So. It Was A Fine Efflorescence Of Fine Powers.

Beauty Is The Mark God Sets Upon Virtue.

There Is No God Dare Wrong A Worm.