Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose, Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend . . . He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.

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

Speech is the small change of silence.

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

Caricature is rough truth.