A really well-made buttonhole is the only link between Art and Nature.
The one person who has more illusions than the dreamer is the man of action.
Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly ...
The ages live in history through their anachronisms.
And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.
Time is a waste of money.
