I Have Met A Thousand

It Is A Kind Of Blindness--poverty. We Can Only Grope Through Life When We Are Poor, Hitting And Maiming Ourselves Against Every Angle.

The Heart Of Silver Falls Ever Into The Hands Of Brass. The Sensitive Herb Is Eaten As Grass By The Swine.

Women Hope That The Dead Love May Revive; But Men Know That Of All Dead Things None Are So Past Recall As A Dead Passion.

When You Talk Yourself, You Think How Witty, How Original, How Acute You Are; But When Another Does So, You Are Very Apt To Think Only - What A Crib From Rochefoucauld!

For What Is The Gift Of The Poet And The Artist Except To See The Sights Which Others Cannot See And To Hear The Sounds That Others Cannot Hear?