Yet A Man May Love

In The Sublimest Flights Of The Soul, Rectitude Is Never Surmounted, Love Is Never Outgrown.

Neither You Nor The World Knows What You Can Do Until You Have Tried.

I Like The Church, I Like A Cowl, I Love A Prophet Of The Soul; And On My Heart Monastic Aisles Fall Like Sweet Strains Or Pensive Smiles; Yet Not For All His Faith Can See, Would I That Cowled Churchman Be.

In Failing Circumstances No One Can Be Relied On To Keep Their Integrity.

If We Tire Of The Saints, Shakspeare Is Our City Of Refuge.