A Mother's Yearning Feels The

In The Chequered Area Of Human Experience The Seasons Are All Mingled As In The Golden Age: Fruit And Blossom Hang Together; In The Same Moment The Sickle Is Reaping And The Seed Is Sprinkled; One Tends The Green Cluster And Another Treads The Wine-press. Nay, In Each Of Our Lives Harvest And Spring-time Are Continually One, Until Death Himself Gathers Us And Sows Us Anew In His Invisible Fields.

A Proud Heart And A Lofty Mountain Are Never Fruitful.

You Have Such Strong Words At Command, That They Make The Smallest Argument Seem Formidable.

Don't Judge A Book By Its Cover

Genius ... Is Necessarily Intolerant Of Fetters.