And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.

I Think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost . The body sluggish, aged, cold, the ember left from earlier fires shall duly flame again.

The road to wisdom is paved with excess. The mark of a true writer is their ability to mystify the familiar and familiarize the strange.

Peace is always beautiful.

I think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost .

A man is a great thing upon the earth and through eternity; but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman.

There was a child went forth everyday, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or dread, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day... or for many years or stretching cycles of years.