The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.

The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.

What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.

But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.

The popularity of that baby-faced boy, who possessed not even the elements of a good actor, was a hallucination in the public mind, and a disgrace to our theatrical history.

The only thing that is fundamental (real) is consciousness itself; all else is virtual- i.e., a result of an exchange of information within consciousness.

Where the Scriptures speak, we speak; where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.