I Do Not Believe Anyone

Let Us Then, Be Up And Doing.

Time Has Laid His Hand Upon My Heart, Gently, Not Smiting It, But As A Harper Lays His Open Palm Upon His Harp, To Deaden Its Vibrations.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

Prayer Is Innocence's Friend; And Willingly Flieth Incessant 'twist The Earth And The Sky, The Carrier-pigeon Of Heaven.