Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.

The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.

I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.

But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.

Prepare, You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods: Not like hard life, of laws.

The stench of the trail of Ego in our History. It is ego - ego, the fountain cry, origin, sole source of war.

Cultivated men and women who do not skim the cream of life, and are attached to the duties, yet escape the harsher blows, make acute and balanced observers.