The True Wealth Of A

Solitude Has Soft, Silky Hands, But With Strong Fingers It Grasps The Heart And Makes It Ache With Sorrow.

For Life And Death Are One, Even As The River And The Sea Are One.

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

Let There Be Spaces In Your Togetherness

Reason Is Not Like The Goods Sold In The Market Places--the More Plentiful They Are, The Less They Are Worth. Reason's Worth Waxes With Her Abundance. But Were She Sold In The Market, It Is Only The Wise Man Who Would Understand Her True Value.