How Little Inventiveness There Is

Who's Not Sat Tense Before His Own Heart's Curtain.

For Humanity Sweeps Onward: Where Today The Martyr Stands, On The Morrow Crouches Judas With The Silver In His Hands; Far In Front The Cross Stands Ready And The Crackling Fagots Burn, While The Hooting Mob Of Yesterday In Silent Awe Return To Glean Up The Scattered Ashes Into History's Golden Urn.

Large Charity Doth Never Soil, But Only Whitens Soft White Hands.

A Sneer Is The Weapon Of The Weak.

Creativity Is Not The Finding Of A Thing, But The Making Something Out Of It After It Is Found.